


Partners In Crime

by rev_eeriee



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe – Pregame (Dangan Ronpa), Alternate Universe – Serial Killer, And by typical I mean, Antisocial Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Humor, Dissociation, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Manipulation, Escapism, M/M, Morally Black Characters, Mutual Pining, Objectification, Obsessive Behavior, Porn With Plot, Pregame Personalities (Dangan Ronpa), Psychological Thriller, Psychological Trauma, READ THE TAGS PLEASE AND THANK YOU, STAY SAFE YOU GUYS, Self-Destructive Behavior, Sexual Sadism, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, sexual masochism, ‘Enoshima totes dug out someone’s eye with a spoon and put it beside her takoyaki’ kind of typical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 18:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15249039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rev_eeriee/pseuds/rev_eeriee
Summary: Ouma wasn’t necessarily suicidal. He was just bored. Bored with his life. Bored with this world.Boredom was poison. Boredom was the invisible chain that constricted around his neck, suffocating the life out of him, making him want to claw at his throat and scream. Boredom was the plague of this world, the utter lack of stimulation that society was cursed with, a hunger that cannot be sated nor contained. Boredom was the motive of Enoshima Junko. Boredom was the motive of Kamukura Izuru. Boredom brought the world down to despair, both in fiction as in reality, as the masses became engrossed by the Killing Games, satisfying their primal urges through the colorful world of fiction.Ouma Kokichi wasn’t interested in fiction. Neither was Momota Kaito.---AKA. Serial Killer Pregame AU. Two strangers meet in the school rooftop. Ouma is bored with his life. Momota introduces him to his secret hobbies. The "peaceful world" of Danganronpa V3 might not be as peaceful as one would think.





	1. “I changed my mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ!  
> I am happy that some people seem to look forward to this story ever since I posted “Under the Stars” in “Stories Untold”, and I’m really grateful for the encouragement you guys gave me. But before we start, I’ll just clear up a few things:
> 
> • Please read the tags. I’m scared of my own tags, lol. Have you ever read the webtoon “Killing Stalking”? This is heavily inspired by that, and is in the same level of fucked-up-ness, I suppose. If you feel too uncomfortable, I recommend you to stop reading immediately. If you have triggers connected to violence, I recommend you to close this fic right now (though really, wtf are you doing the DR fandom?!). I don’t think it’ll be good for you. Please stay safe. 
> 
> • This fic is an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. It is NOT intended to connect to the canon Killing Game. I shudder at the thought that this is Ouma and Momota’s pregame personalities, please no and thank you. I’m currently not planning to write the Killing Game part of this AU (Who knows? Maybe I could be convinced in the future, but I don’t know) because I already have FBTG. 
> 
> • This fic is heavily sexualized. Because of its subject matter, it’s already catered to adults anyway. Death and murder and pain are heavily romanticized. This is a bad fic. Don’t like? Don’t read, don’t bash and don’t complain. This is meant to cater to a specific audience, people like me who are into the genre. This author doesn’t regret anything.

Ouma Kokichi sat on the brick handrail of the school rooftop, using it like a ledge, wiggling his feet playfully into the air. He was staring straight down into a deadly five-floor drop onto hard concrete… contemplating. It was lunchtime, and the students below looked like they’re having a good time, too preoccupied with drooling at their cellphone screens to consider looking up into the sky. If they did, they’d see him, sitting so dangerously close to the edge. Would they be concerned, or would they just look back down on their phones, eager not to miss a single second of their favorite reality show? If Ouma jumped down, would they care at all? He wanted to believe they would, but he had a funny feeling they probably won’t even notice.

It was so easy try and find out. All he needed to do was fall.

These thoughts have been plaguing his mind lately. He imagined himself doing it countless of times. The rush of wind in his ears, the sudden spike of fear and adrenaline, the sickening crack and the burst of white hot pain… sending his mind into numbness. He imagined how pathetic he would look like down there, all broken bones and crimson stained skin, and he’d laugh… laugh and laugh and laugh until every single one of those dumb motherfuckers look at him in horror. Until they all find out for the first time in their lives that real blood was red. That real death was horrifying. That real fear was ecstasy.

Unfortunately, people have become numb. Sometimes Ouma wonders if they’re still people at all. Sometimes he feels as though he was the only real person here, that maybe this was all just one sick simulation and nobody around him had ever really had any sentience akin to a soul. Maybe he was in one of those virtual reality pods that they use these days for the Killing Game. Was he the weird one, or was it the world?

 _A world of peace, they say._ Ouma mused as he chuckled darkly to himself. A world full of people too enamored with fiction to actually live in reality? A world full of people who live without actually _living? This isn’t a world of peace. It’s a world of stagnancy._

Ouma wasn’t necessarily suicidal. He was just bored. Bored with his life. Bored with this world.

Boredom was poison. Boredom was the invisible chain that constricted around his neck, suffocating the life out of him, making him want to claw at his throat and scream. Boredom was the plague of this world, the utter lack of stimulation that society was cursed with, a hunger that cannot be sated nor contained. Boredom was the motive of Enoshima Junko. Boredom was the motive of Kamukura Izuru. Boredom brought the world down to despair, both in fiction as in reality, as the masses became engrossed by the Killing Games, satisfying their primal urges through the colorful world of fiction.

Ouma Kokichi wasn’t interested in fiction. Neither was Momota Kaito.

That was the day he met him.

“Hey, if you’re going to jump down anyway, can I push you off?” was the very nonchalant question he heard behind him, uttered with an almost amused lilt in its tone. Ouma blinked in surprise as he looked behind him, to see a rather tall young man with wine-colored hair and magenta eyes, taking out a cigarette and lighting it with such ease that Ouma knew he had done it countless times before. The guy took a long drag before blowing rings of smoke into the air, cocking his head at him, waiting for a response. 

Ouma’s first thought was what the fuck was a guy like him doing up here. Most people would be glued to their phones at this time of the day, _especially_ today. After all, it was the long awaited first trial of Danganronpa 51, everyone was buzzed to find out who the first killer was. But the guy didn’t even seem to be interested in his phone or… anything, really. Like Ouma, he looked utterly bored, as he walked over and leaned his elbows on the handrail, directly beside him, flicking some ash into the air.

Ouma felt something blossom inside him. Curiosity. He had never seen this guy around before, but it’s not that he paid particular mind to his surroundings as of late. He was tempted to correct him, tell him that no—he wasn’t _really_ going to jump down (or was he? It was sometimes hard to tell), but Ouma decided to humor the stranger as he looked back down. “I don’t need your help in killing myself, no thanks.” He muttered with a faint, amused smile.

“Shame.” The stranger simply replied. Ouma could tell he was looking down as well from his peripheral vision. He was hyperaware of his warmth beside him, contrasting the cold bite of the autumn wind. How easy it would be to pull this fucker down and test his hypothesis. Ouma briefly considered it—raising his hand to grip this stranger’s shirt, yanking hard, laughing candidly as his cool demeanor turned to horror and fear—ah, yes. That was exciting. Certainly something that could ease the boredom threatening to eat all of him. But while Ouma was certain he could do exactly that with no semblance of pity nor remorse, he found himself sitting silently, humming lowly, like a good boy. Wrong day, wrong victim. Ouma was certainly not averse to the thought of killing, no, in fact he was _sure_ that he’s going to start doing it at some point—if he doesn’t kill himself first, that is. But this stranger was too insignificant, too unimportant to be the first victim he’s willing to dirty his hands for. No, that honor was to be given to someone else. He felt a smile tug at his lips. Wider… wider. _Soon. Very, very soon. Be patient. Soon._

“What picked up your mood up so suddenly?” the stranger asked, interested. Ouma hadn’t realized his humming had taken on a more cheerful tune. In a snap, he shut it all down—the smile, the humming, the excited tapping of his fingers on the ledge—everything. Instead he looked up and gave the stranger an innocent look.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

The stranger cocked an eyebrow. He didn't seem to buy it, but he didn't comment. Instead, he looked down again and muttered, sounding vaguely disappointed. “So… I can’t push you down?”

The way he said it made Ouma’s skin prickle. Maybe he’s not the only one actively fantasizing about pushing his companion down. That was… interesting, but he tried to bite the hope back. What are the probabilities that someone else in this school was as sick in the head as he was? _No, each and everyone in this school is sick in the head. I just have different… interests._

The thought was both comforting and sickening.

“Do you want to?” he asked.

The stranger shrugged as he took another drag from his cigarette. “Maybe.” 

 _Maybe. Maybe maybe maybe maybe…_ Ouma turned his response over and over in his head. _Maybe_ was the response people say when they’re being coy. Either that, or they didn't want to commit. Maybe. Maybe maybe maybe. Did Ouma want to die? Maybe. Did Ouma want to kill? Maybe.

Did Ouma want to see those mindless sheep down below bleat in panic and gasp in horror? _Fuck_ yes. Did Ouma want to jump? Yes. Did Ouma want to die? Maybe.

Jumping didn't necessarily mean he’ll die. It’s just the fifth floor, how bad could it be? Maybe he’d survive. Not without a couple of broken bones, surely. It would hurt like a _bitch_. On the other hand, maybe he would die—but the more he considered it, the more it started to sound oddly enticing. What’s to live for anyway? He’s so bored. So bored, so bored, so bored, so _FUCKING_ BORED—

Ouma giggled. He had to clutch at his stomach, because everything was so fucking hilarious. And ridiculous. What if Death wasn’t what Ouma hoped it to be? Instead of oblivion, what if it was just floating in the abyss, in the darkness and nothingness, with nothing to do? God, that would be hell. That would be _his_ hell. He deserved to be there, too. He knew full well he does.

Ouma felt the giggles pass, but the feeling of dread lingered. He looked back at the stranger and raised an eyebrow. “If I die, do you think I’d regret it?” He didn’t know why he was asking, it just felt right.

The stranger smiled. “Honestly? A lot of you suicidal lot do, just before the life drain out of your eyes.” 

Ouma hummed. “Hm~ you act like this isn’t your first rodeo.”

“Because it _isn’t._ ”

It was that moment. When the spark of curiosity kindled a small flame of interest. _Did this guy just admit what I think he admitted?_ He felt a smile tug at his lips as he looked at the stranger—actually _looked_ at him, for the very first time. He had tan weathered skin, calloused hands, and muscular frame—typical of the usual delinquent. And yet his grin was infectious, disarming even. He wielded it like a weapon, in a way that reminded Ouma of himself when he dons his masks. His eyes looked bright, enthusiastic, as if stars sparkled inside them, and that was the very reason that Ouma thought something was off. Something was _wrong_. He looked like he didn’t belong in this world. Like a three-dimensional model forcefully crammed inside some cheap anime.

He was an aberration. He looked _alive._

Why had Ouma missed this before?

Wonder. Excitement. It has been so long since he felt this way. Before he realized it, he was once again giggling uncontrollably. He felt a little giddy, drunk on the presence of another _human being_. They were a rarity, these days, because Ouma refused to accept those mindless drones below were anything close to human.

“What’s your name, stranger? I’m Ouma Kokichi.” He said, cheerfully. The guy cocked an eyebrow, curious at the sudden changes in his demeanor.

“Momota Kaito.” He muttered thoughtfully, staring at him intently, as if trying to read his face. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” Ouma replied as he stood up on the ledge, putting his arms on either side of him as if he was doing a balancing act. “So, Momota-chan…”

“Momota-chan?” Momota cracked an amused smile. Ouma shrugged.

“Do you do this often? Talk suicidal people into letting you kill them?”

Momota let out a soft hum. “Sure I do. This time of the year, a lot of hopeful teenagers ends up wanting to kick the bucket. You know… being rejected from the Danganronpa auditions must have done a number on their heads. I’m giving them what they want, not my fault if they change their minds too late. They always make this funny squeal when I break their skulls open.” He chuckled, as if he was sharing a fond memory. 

Ouma gave him a look. “You’re kidding.”

Momota grinned, and for a moment Ouma shivered because it almost looked like a threat. A beast baring its fangs in warning. “People always assume that. I don’t look like the type, no?”

Ouma let that question linger in the air. Momota’s face was almost gentle in some ways, his eyes almost kind. But that was the thing. The word _almost._ Underneath all those ‘almost’s were something sickly sweet… pungent and unmistakable. Momota certainly didn’t seem like someone who’d commit murder and nonchalantly admit to it, but he just did… and it was interesting. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, genuinely curious. “I could easily report you.”

Momota laughed as if he’s heard the funniest joke in the world. It was a mocking laugh, Ouma realized. “I was planning to kill you anyway. I’d hate to break it to you buddy, but you’re not going down this building alive. Well, unless you wanna take your chances…” he gestured down. 

Ouma felt goosebumps down his neck. Fear. It tore its way through his insides, making his stomach churn, his heartbeat quicken. Fight or flight. Flight or fight. Adrenaline in his veins. Making him gasp. How…

… _exhilarating._  

Momota was still staring at him kindly. As if he didn’t just threaten him. Fuck, he’s good. Fuck, he’s so goddamn good. Ouma resisted the urge to kiss him. The shorter boy grinned.

“What have I ever done to you, Momota-chan?” the tone was hurt, but he looked positively delighted. 

Momota’s eyes widened, as if he was seeing something fascinating, something he had never seen before. “Nothing really. People are ignoring me over that fucking trial, so I’m a little pissed off. Just wanna blow some steam.” He replied. “You know what? I’m actually grateful I did…” he trailed off.

“Why?” he asked, his grin unfaltering.

“You’re different.” Momota replied in wonder. “Nobody ever responded to my threats the way you do. Are you actually… enjoying this?”

“Am I?” _Am I? Maybe. Maybe maybe maybe maybe—_ “I’m just bored. So if I’m going to die anyway, let’s make a bet!”

Momota’s eyes sparkled as he leaned in. He’s interested.

Ouma gestured with his hand dramatically, like a magician. “Death is magic. Fear is the trigger. And I’m going to cast a spell on everyone below!” he said with a giggle, as if he was a child. “I’m going to turn them into humans again.”

Momota blew smoke in the air. “Go on.”

“How many people down below has seen death right in front of their eyes? Has felt real, genuine fear in their veins? What do you think?”

Momota considered it. “Probably none. We are a _peaceful_ society after all.” There was mockery in his tone.

“Exactly! How many people do you think would be horrified to see me fall?”

Momota considered this again. With a slow grin, he replied. “None.”

Ouma chuckled at that. “You don’t have much faith in humanity, do you, Momota-chan?”

“I’m afraid not.” He replied, as he tossed the cigarette down on the floor and crushed it under his foot. “Wait, are you actually going to _jump_?”

“Why not? It’s intellectual curiosity! I wanna find out!”

“Find out what?” 

“If people still have enough human in them to react in this situation.”

Momota tilted his head, looking amused, if not slightly concerned. He ran his fingers through his hair, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “God, you’re…”

“I’m what, Momota-chan?”

“ _Crazy_.”

 _You’re one to talk._ Ouma laughed as he looked down. He was going to do this. It felt _right_ to do this. He was excited for the first time he could remember. Terribly, terribly excited. So excited he was trembling. Or was he trembling because he was afraid? No, that’s silly. Certainly not. He loved this. This… thrill. He wanted to jump. Before he could change his mind. He wanted to _fucking_ jump.

“Ready?” he asked. His voice didn’t quiver. There was no hesitation in his eyes. He was so sure of himself in that moment that he wondered why he even spent so much time contemplating this, and why he even needed a homicidal schoolmate to guide him the way. “Don’t blink! Let’s find out together!” Never once breaking his excited demeanor, he braced himself and jumped.

_Jumped._

It all happened at once. Ouma thought it would unfold just as he expected it would. _The rush of wind in his ears, the sudden spike of fear and adrenaline, the sickening crack and the burst of white hot pain—_

Instead, he felt a sudden jolt on his right arm. He cried out in pain, and hissed, realizing just then that he was dangling into open air. _Huh, that’s weird._ He should be down there on the ground by now, writhing in pain. People should be looking in his direction, if not in horror, then at least in curiosity. What a beautiful commercial break his ‘suicide’ would have caused! This wasn’t the plan. This… wasn’t the plan at all.

He looked up. Momota looked surprised himself, but he was holding Ouma by the wrist, so tight the shorter boy’s hand had turned white. It seems as though Momota had acted completely out of instinct, with the way his eyes widened, staring at his grip on Ouma’s wrist. Momota saved him? That didn’t make sense.

“I thought you wanted me to die, Momota-chan.” He murmured, in wonder and slight disappointment.

For a long moment Momota seemed tongue-tied. As if he was contemplating whether or not to let go. Ouma wouldn’t mind either way. But in the end, Momota lifted him up effortlessly (was Ouma just light, or was Momota just strong? Ouma found himself wondering) and helped him up, so that he won’t be in danger of the fall anymore. 

Momota looked dazed, mesmerized. Ouma shifted so he sat on the handrail again, but this time he was facing him, his head tilted and waiting for a response. Ouma felt a finger trail down his cheek, lifting his chin up, so that they’re staring at each other eye to eye. Finally, a fond expression graced Momota’s face.

“I changed my mind.”

 

* * *

 

As far as Momota was concerned, there are a lot of things that are fascinating in this world. The slowly falling snowflakes in the winter. The night sky filled with countless glimmering stars. The crimson seeping through a newly stabbed flesh. The blank, lifeless look in the eyes of the dead. 

And then there’s Ouma Kokichi.

Ouma Kokichi who laughed and smiled and _giggled_ at his threats. Ouma Kokichi who gesticulated his hands like a magician about to cast a magic trick, all while standing at the top of a ledge of the school rooftop. Ouma Kokichi who claimed intellectual curiosity, jumping to what would have been his death, _willingly_ , with not a single shred of fear for his mortality.

Ouma Kokichi, who smiled when he changed his mind, chiming cheerfully. “Well, that’s a relief! Whew. I thought for sure I was dead.”

The school bell rang. Lunch was over. Ouma simply jumped down from where he was sitting, although this time he landed on the floor of the rooftop. He grinned, a childish grin that was almost innocent if it wasn’t coming from a guy who technically just tried to kill himself, and Momota found himself smiling, genuinely impressed for the first time in a long, _long_ while.

“Don’t worry, Momota-chan! My lips are sealed about your secret hobbies.” Ouma said teasingly, making his _secret hobbies_ sound far tamer than any other person would. As if it was something slightly embarrassing, but certainly not to be concerned about. Momota was intrigued. He knew this feeling. His old friend, obsession, was knocking on his door yet again, and Momota was nothing if not a hedonist, living his life to the fullest. He loves what he loves to the fullest. Breaks what he breaks to the fullest. Desires what he desires to the fullest. And at the moment, Momota wasn’t sure which of the three applies to Ouma Kokichi, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find out. 

The rusty old door leading downstairs creaked as Ouma pulled it open. He hesitated, and made one last look back. They say opposites attract, and Momota was keenly aware of how small and fragile and _weak_ the boy looked compared to him, how light he was when he pulled him up to safety. But Momota didn’t think they were opposites, not really. Because when Ouma looked back there was a glint in his eyes—excitement and glee in his lilac irises, eyes so beautiful Momota wanted to gouge it out and admire it forever—and he _knew._

Ouma Kokichi was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He just hasn’t gotten rid of his costume yet.

“Momota-chan isn’t boring at all!” he was saying. He said it like a compliment, as if the fact that Momota wasn’t boring was in and of itself a novelty to behold. “Come play with me again sometime.”

Momota leaned on the handrail. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine his petty lunch break would result in such an exciting turn of events. He grinned.

“You bet I fucking will.”


	2. "Save yourself."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momota brings Ouma to his playground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13 of FBTG isn't ready yet, so here, have some Serial Killer AU. :D
> 
> I have to admit I fall into a weird mood when I write this fic, so when I reread this for editing… it made me a little queasy, myself. So yep. Proceed with caution. There are more scenes like this in the future. Stay safe. >>
> 
> Also: the theme of this fic is literally YOLO, so don’t be surprised if things escalate fast. Momota simply doesn’t know the idea of restraint. I know that oumota is like, the prime definition of slow burns, but hey, let’s mix it up a bit, why don’t we? ;)
> 
> WARNING: Graphic violence ahead.

“Ouma Kokichi?” some sheep asked, as he (it? _It_ , Momota decided) glanced around uneasily. It leaned in and whispered. “He’s in my class. He’s a weird one, that guy. He proclaimed he hated Danganronpa on his speech in the opening ceremony last year. I mean, look, who _hates_ Danganronpa?” it shook its head as if the mere prospect of hating the Killing Game show was so absurd and stupid. Momota wasn’t interested in what it had to say anymore. His mind was already focused on the other details.

“He talked in the opening ceremony?” he asked. Momota didn’t even _attend_ the opening ceremony last year. Now he wished he did.

It’s been a couple of days since that fateful day at the school rooftop, but while Momota promised they’d _play again_ sometime, he actually found it hard to find time to talk to Ouma again. Momota supposed it’s because Ouma spends his lunch break on the oddest places in school (one time Momota had spotted him eating a sandwich while up in a tree, another time he had wedged himself in the small space between the wall and the vending machine). Not to mention that the guy had a habit of going home as soon as the bell rang, while Momota was pushed along by whoever his “friend” of the day was into doing whatever extra activities they had in mind. Today he was hoping he’d see him again (partly why he picked Ouma’s classmate to be his “friend” of the day), but to his disappointment the object of his fascination was already gone. It ticked him off more than he wanted to admit, so god help whoever unfortunate fucker is tied up in his basement right now, he’s going to blow some steam when he gets back.

The sheep was still talking. Annoying. “Yeah, well, he apparently aced the entrance exam, so he was the first year representative. Been on top ever since. But I don’t know, man. He smells like trouble. He doesn’t talk in class, doesn’t socialize, and sometimes he even comes to school with these weird bruises on his arms—”

Momota tuned the voice out, but he kept smiling and nodding either way, as if he was listening. He lifted his book bag as they started walking down the hallway, on their way back home, with the classes finished for the day. A streak of color caught his eye, and his heart skipped a beat in excitement. _Is that…?_ He glanced over at the lockers, where he saw a familiar plum-haired boy taking off his shoes with a blank expression on his face…

“—did you see the episode last night? There was a body discovery announcement, finally! It looked horrible—”

Momota nodded along as his footsteps sped up, watching Ouma open his locker and change into his outdoor shoes. A pair of students approached him and started to talk, but he simply hugged his book bag close to his chest as he answered, his eyes trained on the floor…

“—who did you think did it, Momota-kun?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t watch.” To this the sheep’s eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t care. He already skipped ahead, eager to get away from his companion. Why bother with nameless, insignificant sheep like it when there’s _Ouma Kokichi_ right around the corner? He felt his lips morph into grin as he strode towards him with a purpose, excited and eager—

One of the two students pushed Ouma lightly on the shoulder as they talked among themselves. Momota almost wanted to laugh at such a lame attempt at harassment (they could do better than that! Like step on his feet or break his wrists or something, Ouma looks so damn _breakable_ after all). Ouma, light and weak as he is, stumbled back a little but didn’t reply, looking so uninterested Momota could tell he was barely even there, already lost in his own head. That is, until his eyes flitted up to meet his gaze. Recognition flashed in his expression, and suddenly he grinned the same childish, innocent grin he made at the rooftop. The change was so drastic that his bullies were taken aback, and Momota felt a bit of pride at the thought that it was his presence that grounded Ouma back to this world, back to this reality.

As he approached, he flashed a wide grin, not bothering to even acknowledge the existence of the two (or three, if you add the sheep he was with earlier—what was his name?) students that were now gaping openly at their interaction.

“Hey.” He said. Casual and nonchalant.

“Hey.” Ouma replied, lilac eyes sparkling. Fuck, those really look good. It seemed to go on forever, reminding Momota of the vast expanse of space, and he’s been obsessed with that shit for god knows how long. He placed a palm on his cheek, thinking just how easy it would be to pluck those out— _no._ It would be a waste to break such an interesting toy so soon, when he has barely even played with him yet.

Momota titled his head. “Wanna walk home with me?”

Ouma narrowed his eyes as he considered it. “Will it be boring?”

“I am _never_ boring.” Momota replied cockily, raising an eyebrow, as if urging Ouma to challenge the statement. Ouma had the gall to raise an eyebrow back, _challenging_ him. The palm on his cheek slid to his hair, clasping a couple of strands of his fist as Momota leaned down to whisper at his ear. “Come with me, I’ll show you something _good.”_

“Are you asking me out on a date _,_ Momota-chan?” Ouma asked, amused. Momota tightened his hold on his hair, wanting to see him squirm. The fucker didn’t even flinch, and that excited Momota to no end. Just how high could his pain tolerance be? They both stared into each other’s eyes, intrigued magenta to bemused lilac, and Momota was stricken with the realization that this seemed to be some form of bizarre flirting. Momota felt his lips twitch—he didn’t hate it.

“Maybe. Wanna play?” he asked as he placed his hands on his pockets, in a tone innocent enough for people to assume he meant play in the arcade or something, but only Ouma knew the implications underneath his words. His pupils dilated a little bit, and when he replied he was a little breathless.

“ _Fuck yes.”_

 Momota bit his lip over a smile as he pulled his hand along, not even sparing a glance at whoever might be gaping at them at that moment, because that really doesn’t matter. _They_ don’t really matter.  The two boys were both grinning like idiots as they left the school grounds, just two high-school students without a care in the world.

* * *

“How fucked up are you?”

Ouma paused from licking the ice cream cone he had convinced Momota to buy on the way (“If you’re taking me home, go buy me dinner first!” he had insisted playfully, as if a cheap ice cream cone was an equivalent of a dinner… well, to him it probably was.) and considered Momota’s question. He hummed under his breath as he absentmindedly counted the steps they were taking towards Momota’s residence. He supposed it was over two thousand steps now. Momota lives at fucking _nowhere._

“Hmm~ On a scale of one to ten? I don’t know Momota-chan.” He replied as he tilted his head. “How does one scale that kind of stuff? You’d probably want to make your question just _a little more_ specific.”

Momota frowned. “Fair point. You see, I just don’t get why you’re restraining yourself so much. It blows my mind. If you’re so bored, why not do something about it?” he asked, looking genuinely curious. “You should’ve just… you know, found something fun to do, pick up a hobby…” he trailed off.

“Like _your_ hobby?” Ouma asked. Momota shrugged in a ‘why not’ manner. Ouma considered it as he took another lick from his treat. “Hm~ it sounds pretty great, but let’s just say I want my _first time_ to be special.” He replied suggestively.

Momota rolled his eyes. “God, you sound like a lame ass virgin.”

“And if I am? A _lame ass virgin_ , as you so eloquently put it?” Ouma asked as he skipped ahead a few steps, facing Momota with a glint in his eyes. “Murder is like sex, wouldn’t you agree, Momota-chan? The intensity, the heat, the spike of pleasure as you watch your partner come undone, vulnerabilities exposed for you to see…” his voice lowered into a sultry tone. Momota cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s just say I don’t sleep with _anybody._ Unlike you. In this metaphor, you’re a slut.”

Momota burst out laughing.

Ouma’s let himself make a small, private smile. Seeing Momota laughing, knowing it was he who amused him, made him feel a little giddy inside. “Do you even _remember_ who your first time was?”

At this question, Momota’s laughter only became more pronounced, more uncontrollable, as he clutched at his stomach to try and stifle it out. He bit his lip as he composed himself, shaking his head. “Oh… _fuck._ Fuck, this is going to sound _so wrong_ because of your stupid metaphor.”

 _Oh?_ This was going to be good. “Tell me.”

Momota hesitated, but he replied, the laughter never fading from his eyes. “It was my neighbor’s dog when I was nine.”

“Oh my _god_.” Ouma said as he almost dropped his ice cream with the giggles erupting from inside him. “Oh my god _._ Ew, that’s so gross, Momota-chan!”

“Shut up! You’re the one who made it weird!”

They arrived in front of an old house, and Momota let the laughter subside as he skipped ahead, pulling the keys in his pockets as he unlocked the front gate. Ouma looked around curiously. It was quite strange that they haven’t seen any neighbors on the way here. The neighborhood Momota was living in was deserted, almost like a ghost town, but Momota didn’t seem to mind. He was humming under his breath as he opened the gate, letting Ouma in. The house suggested Momota’s family was more well-off than Ouma’s, as it seemed to be able to house an average-sized family, but when Momota let him in, only silence filled the empty residence. Ouma’s thoughts wandered.

“You live alone, Momota-chan?” he asked.

“Yeah. Parents died a while back. My grandma and grandpa doesn’t like living close to the city, so.”

“Hm~ I’m jealous.” Ouma muttered as he took of his shoes and wandered inside, finishing his ice cream before placing his book bag on the soft sofa in the living area. His eyes swept across the room, noticing the little things. Like the ashtray on the center table, the small Monokuma plush toy on top of the TV, the small brown stains on the carpet that might have been coffee... or blood. Momota didn’t seem to mind that he’s wandering, so he took that as a sign to walk deeper into the house, somehow ending up in the kitchen.

“You have a nice house...” Ouma mused, comparing it to his own, which was a mess. Ouma never had much friends, so it was actually the first time he had been in someone else’s home. The difference was rather jarring—no beer bottles in sight, no spoiled or burnt food in the kitchen, and while this place smelled faintly of cigarettes, it wasn’t nearly as suffocating as back home.

Suddenly, he felt Momota behind him. He turned to see the guy smiling fondly as he leaned on the kitchen door frame, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Thanks. I try to keep the place tidy, you know.”

Ouma smiled and tilted his head. “But you didn’t bring me here to see the house, did you?”

“Of course not. Didn’t I tell you?” Momota’s said as he walked towards him with sadistic amusement in his eyes. His steps were slow and deliberate, and Ouma felt the familiar prickling of his skin, fear and excitement settling low in his gut. He instinctively took a step back, only to be stopped short by the kitchen counter. Momota seemed to find this amusing, as he rested his hands on the counter, arms on either side of him, caging him in. He leaned in to his ear and whispered.

“We’re going to _play._ ”

Ouma’s breath hitched. “Are you planning to kill me?”

Momota’s eyes sparkled. “As tempting as that is, love, I have other ideas in mind. I was thinking I could convince you.” He said as he pushed a lock of hair behind Ouma’s ear. Ouma flushed at the endearment, as he swallowed hard.

“Convince me to what?”

“Stop being a ‘virgin’?” Momota grinned as he stepped back, taking his hand and kissing his knuckles affectionately. “Follow me.”

Ouma felt dazed as Momota gave him a knowing smile, pulling at his hand and dragging him along. He never really had anyone look at him the way Momota does before, as if he was… _desirable_. It intrigued him, excited him, made him crave whatever it was Momota had in mind. He was led towards a hidden staircase leading down to the basement. He squinted his eyes as it tried to adjust in the darkness, at least until Momota walked to the corner and flipped on a light switch.

The image made him gasp.

The room, in the light, was both curious and a little terrifying, much like Momota himself. It was fairly big, and looked like your regular old tool shed, with a workbench littered with toolboxes, some of which are open, as if it was just recently used. The floor and walls were plain concrete and would not have been notable if it weren’t for the bloodstains, some fresh and some old. But that wasn’t even what made Ouma gasp— it was the figure on the floor, curled up, cowering in fear, blindfolded and handcuffed on one of the pipes jutting out of the wall. A whimper erupted from their mouth, covered tightly by a duct tape, and purple and green bruises littered their skin.

A person. A boy around their age. Ouma noted with an eerie detachment that there were merely stumps where his feet should be, festering with infection. _I bet he doesn’t even feel it._ he thought. _I bet he doesn’t even know._ The human body was amazing that way. A part of him was suddenly tempted to rip his blindfold away and see the horror that would fill his eyes when he realizes he’s broken, he’s unfixable, at this point it was better to _die—_

Ouma doubled over and covered his mouth. From the corner of his eye, he was aware that Momota was watching him with a blank expression, no doubt waiting for his reaction. A ripple of a strange, unfamiliar feeling crawled in his arms.

And then... he _laughed._

He was laughing. He didn’t exactly understand why. A normal person should probably feel horrified, disgusted even. So why… why was he so _thrilled?_ But laughing felt right. Laughing felt _good._ He supposed he had confirmed something he had always suspected: he was fucked up. Broken. Beyond repair. He didn’t know what made him this way. He didn’t care.

He was ecstatic.

The kiss was like a tidal wave, hitting him hard, and the next thing he knew he was pushed onto the nearest wall with enough force to knock the breath out of his lungs. He was merely able to gasp before Momota’s lips crashed against his, forceful and insistent, his body pressed against the wall, hands pinned over his head. All he could do was lock his ankles around Momota’s hips and give in to the sensation, kissing him back, welcoming his tongue into his mouth _—_ a battle for dominance that he was bound to lose, but didn’t mind anyway. He didn’t know if Momota was a good kisser, as he didn’t have any experience to use as reference, but he supposed that he must have been, with the way this kiss was turning his knees to jelly. Soon enough he felt himself getting lightheaded, so he pulled back, and Momota used the opportunity to pepper kisses down his neck _—_

“God, you are…” he whispered between kisses. “… so fucking _perfect—”_

He suddenly bit him, hard. Ouma cried out in pain.

“Momota… chan…” he was panting as he craned his neck to give him more access. “I’m flattered… and all… but what…”

Momota suddenly pulled back. Ouma whimpered at the loss as he collapsed to the floor, breathing hard. He knew his cheeks must be flushed, eyes half-lidded with desire, but Momota simply grinned at him like an excited child as he gestured all around the room. “ _This_ ,” he started, eyes alight with pride. “is my playground. And _this_ ,” he said as he walked over and lifted the boy by the hair. The unfortunate fellow groaned in pain. “is my toy! My _current_ toy, anyway.”

 _Ah._ Ouma thought, as he felt his lips twitch to a smile. “Current?” he asked.

Momota shrugged. “I go through a lot. They never seem to last more than a few days. Look at this guy, he’s already broken. After I put all that effort on trying to stop his bleeding.” He said in disappointment as he tossed him back down to the floor. The boy grunted. He was still shaking horribly, but didn’t react either way. His blindfold got skewed from Momota’s actions, and Ouma could see his eyes were open, gazing far into the distance. Escapism. Dissociation. He may not yet be gone from this world, but his mind certainly was.

 _Poor guy._ Ouma thought, yet he didn’t feel pity for him at all. He probably _should,_ but Ouma never really deluded himself that he was anything but a horrible human being. Instead, he felt his lips lift into a grin. “I wonder if I can bring him back.” He murmured.

Momota cocked an eyebrow, interested. “Be my guest.”

Ouma’s eyes widened. He felt as if Momota had just given him a birthday present. His expression shone of childlike wonder. “Really?”

Momota shrugged as he took a chair in the corner and turned it over, sitting down so he was leaning his arms and chin on the backrest. “Sure. I don’t mind. Use anything around here if you must. You’d probably want to take off your uniform if you’re planning to make it bloody.”

Ouma’s lips twitched. “Is this a ploy to get me to strip, Momota-chan?”

Momota grinned. “Maybe.”

Ouma giggled as he circled the boy still shaking on the floor. “Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t think that would be necessary. I’m sure you were just _dying_ to a get a piece of little old me.” he fluttered his eyelashes at Momota. Momota’s eyes darkened. Ouma could practically feel his gaze raking all over him, and in response his breath hitched, his heartbeat racing. The taller boy absentmindedly ran his thumb on his still slightly-swollen lips, and Ouma had to make a visible attempt to stifle the whine that was trying to make it past his lips, because _goddammit_ he looked downright seductive. Momota must have noticed the effect he had on him, grinning as he replied.

“Can’t say you’re wrong. But I bet I won’t need to do much to get you moaning and begging underneath me.”

Those words nearly reduced Ouma to ashes where he stood. He tore his eyes away, feeling desire course white hot through his veins. Ouma has never been a sexually charged person, his disinterest to the rest of the world made him nearly incapable of experiencing physical attraction, but Momota was different. Entirely, _gloriously_ different. Ouma was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, knowing he’ll burn, but planning to enjoy the searing pain.

Momota was chaos. Momota was _sin._

Ouma could practically _feel_ his eyes, still trained on him, but he didn’t dare look back, knowing he’ll be seducing him again. “Slut.” He taunted.

“ _Virgin._ ” Momota spat, sounding amused.

Ouma can’t help the stupid smile that graced his face as he walked over to the workbenches, opening up a couple of toolboxes and observing its contents. Momota’s collection all looked polished to a T, clearly well-used and well-loved. It ranged from knives to cleavers to screwdrivers and wrenches and saws and hammers _—_ to his amusement, there was even a big fucking _chainsaw._ He ran his hands over it, testing a few tools on his hands, but after a while he decided he didn’t need anything. He saw Momota raise an eyebrow, but he didn’t comment. Ouma looked around, finding a key in a keyring hung by a hook on the wall. He took it and played it on his fingers, staring at the victim before him.

“Is this the key to the handcuffs?” he asked.

Momota nodded, but now he seemed more curious than ever, unable to contain his question. “What are you planning?”

Ouma placed an innocent finger on his cheek. “Hm… just wait and see, Momota-chan!” He said as he sat down on the floor next to Momota’s _toy,_ taking off his blindfold, tearing off the duct tape in his mouth and patting the boy’s cheek lightly. “Hey. Hey, hey, hey, _hey_!”

The boy wasn’t replying, but Ouma expected that. He suddenly threw his hand back.

**_SMACK!_ **

The sound of the hard slap rebounded across the walls. Ouma’s hand stung, but he didn’t mind. This seemed to rattle the boy a little, as he stared at him with a disoriented expression. Ouma smiled widely, the most innocent and good-natured smile he could manage, as he dangled the key right in front of the boy’s eyes. “Hello! I got something you might be interested in.”

The boy blinked, eyes fixated on the keys. Then he looked back at Ouma, as if he was finally registering his face. His eyes held a fear that made Ouma shiver, a fear that was so rare to see in people these days, he wanted to see more… more, more, _more, more—_ but no, that wasn’t his objective right now. His objective is to bring this boy back from wherever he had locked himself in. Give him _hope._ It was quite funny, now that Ouma thought about it: wasn’t that one of Enoshima Junko’s ideals? That without hope, there won’t be despair? He suddenly realized why Momota’s toys always end up breaking down in just a few days, because Momota didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who could hold back like this. Patience reaps great rewards, but he didn’t think patience was the guy’s forte at all.

 _I just have to show him, then._ He thought with a bit of a smile, pleased with the idea there were some things he could teach a highly experienced serial killer.

When the boy spoke, his voice was raspy, as if water hasn’t touched his throat for a long while. “W-Who… who are you?”

Ouma grinned. “Your savior! Poor you, Momota-chan has been really hard on you, hasn’t he?”

The boy swallowed hard as his eyes flitted about, hands tugging instinctively at his restraints, whimpering pathetically when he saw Momota sitting on the chair, watching them intently. “S-Save me! He’s a maniac! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill you, too! Please…. _please_ …” He looked desperate, like a cornered wild animal. Ouma stared at him in wonder. He had never seen people react like this, not even in the Killing Game. How interesting. He raised his hand to touch the boy’s cheek and he flinched, cringing from the contact, murmuring under his breath. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry… please forgive me, I’ll be good, I’ll be good...”

Ouma smiled empathetically, although he felt no empathy at all. “Of course I forgive you. Momota-chan forgives you too, right, Momota-chan?” he glanced back at him. Momota looked amused as he went along with his charade and nodded. “See? You’ve been such a good boy, after all, taking all the hits like that…”

“R-Really?” a broken smile crept up the boy’s face.

“Yes, really.” Ouma cooed, before making an apologetic look. “Though I’m terribly, _terribly_ sorry about your feet…”

The boy looked confused for a moment, until he looked down and _screamed._ He scrambled over, the tugging on his handcuffs getting more intense as he stared at the stumps where his feet should be, flailing his legs as if he’ll be able to grow it back to life. Ouma almost laughed. _Almost._ But he was good at controlling his face when he put his mind to it.

“Geez! Don’t be so dramatic. There are a lot of wheelchairs and prosthetics in the market these days, you’ll be fine!” he said, eyes sparkling optimistically. “Isn’t that kinda cool, being a feet version of Komaeda Nagito? So, you still want these keys or not?” He asked as he dangled the keys in front of the boy once again. The boy now looked utterly distressed as he stared back at him.

“Give it back…” he was murmuring. “Give it back, give it back, GIVE IT BACK YOU SICK BASTARDS _—”_

Ouma unceremoniously gripped the boy by the throat, making him choke on his own spit, shutting him up effectively as he squirmed against his grasp. Ouma couldn’t deny that this was exhilarating, having this sort of power over someone, knowing their lives are in your hands. No wonder Momota was addicted to this hobby. He smiled at his victim sweetly. “Or—I could snap your neck right now! Your screaming is kinda irritating me.”

The boy whimpered. Ouma’s grip tightened, and he could see his face turning slightly purple from the lack of oxygen. Tears edged at the corner of his eyes as he tried to gasp for air, and if his hands weren’t tied up Ouma knew he’d be clawing at his hands to break free. Ouma wondered if he was being choked as well, because for some reason he too found it a little harder to breathe, the idea that he could end this boy’s life right _here_ making him feel lightheaded with ecstasy.

Even so, he stared intently and waited, waited and _waited,_ until he knew that the boy was close to passing out. He finally let go and his victim wheezed, tears and snot all over his face _—_ Ouma suddenly thought that when he dies, he didn’t want to look as pathetic as this. No wonder Momota looked so entranced with him that day on the rooftop, if this was the kind of face he was used to seeing in the threat of death.

Ouma will be smiling when he dies. He made a promise to himself that he will.

“I’m sorry…” the boy was muttering again, back to his timidity, to his broken self. “I-I won’t… scream… anymore… please just let me go… let me go… I promise I’ll be good… I’ll be good...”

Ouma gave him a look. “Promise?” he asked with a teasing lilt in his tone. The boy nodded vigorously. Ouma leaned down and put the key on the handcuffs, before glancing at Momota, silently asking for permission. Momota seemed amused at the display before him, evidently pleased his supposedly _broken_ toy was somehow talking again. Ouma knew that once he turned this key, things could get unpredictable. In fact, he had an idea of what kind of situation may transpire, after the boy’s outburst from earlier. He was angry. He acted so submissive and obedient now, but he’s angry.

When Momota spoke, Ouma realized he was aware of this fact. “Dude, _seriously_?”

Ouma smirked. “It’s more fun this way, isn’t it?”

“And I thought _I_ was the adrenaline junkie in this room.”

Ouma giggled as he turned the key. The handcuffs clicked open, and their toy didn’t disappoint. Because as soon as his hands were free, he _lunged_ at Ouma, straddling him by the chest, holding him by the neck. Ouma gasped as his back hit hard concrete for the second time today, as he watched the boy’s eyes flit wildly around the room to find any sort of weapon to threaten him with. He managed to get an unassuming kitchen knife ( _Uh-oh._ Ouma thought, almost amused. _I’m in trouble.)_ that was just lying there in the floor. His hands were shaking as he pointed it at Momota, eyes terrified _—_

“L-L-Let me out.” He stuttered. “Let me out… let me out…”

For a moment, Momota’s face was blank. And then… a slow, feral grin crept on his face as he stood up. From Ouma’s position on the floor, Momota towered over him, and the shorter boy couldn’t help but think he looked absolutely gorgeous, grinning like that.

“DON’T MOVE!” their toy yelled in panic. “D-Don’t move _—_ or I’ll… I’ll _—_ “ he suddenly poised the knife at Ouma’s throat. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him, I swear I will _—_ “

Momota laughed as he replied. “Go. Do it. The guy will probably get off on it.”

Ouma giggled. He felt the cold tip of the knife kiss dangerously against his neck, but he didn’t really care at all. Ouma rarely cares at all for his own well-being. The boy seemed to get confused at their nonchalant response to his threats, realizing just then that Ouma was not a valuable hostage to hold onto. When Momota took a step closer he whimpered, the knife in his hand shaking horribly, as if he wasn’t sure where to point it, Ouma, Momota… or himself.

And that was when Ouma had an idea.

“Bad toys get punished.” He chimed in a sing-songy voice, catching the boy’s attention. “You shouldn’t have tried to attack me. Now Momota-chan will punish you—over and over and over…”

Horror washed over the boy’s features, realizing Ouma was right. Momota took another step closer.

“I bet he’ll take your hands next!” Ouma said delightedly as he raised himself by the elbows, taunting the boy further. “But this time he’ll surely make you feel it, slowly sawing your flesh away… doesn’t that sound _awful?_ ” Ouma gave him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry you’ll have to go through that…” he cooed as he leaned in to his ears and let his voice drop in volume. “but maybe you don’t have to.”

The boy’s breath hitched. Now Ouma knew he had him. He smirked, as he whispered.

“ _Save yourself_.”

The scream that followed was strangled and guttural as the boy lifted the knife and _ripped_ it across his own throat, warm blood spurting all over and hitting Ouma square in the face. The body convulsed for a few moments, hands shaking, faze contorted in pain and fear, and Ouma felt a certain kind of wonder as he watched the life drain out of his eyes. Who knew death was so beautiful up close? It took his breath away. He was barely aware of Momota walking closer, kicking the body off of him and helping him up to his feet, brushing some of the blood away with his fingers.

“Red is a good color on you.” He complimented. Ouma finally managed to tear his eyes away from the corpse and to Momota’s face. There was pure, unadulterated pride brimming in the taller boy’s expression. Ouma grinned, feeling a little dazed from the intensity of the experience.

“Thanks. I guess I still should’ve taken off my uniform after all.”

“Hmm… told you.” Momota hummed as he glanced down at his clothes, stained with sprays of blood. His eyes darkened as he bit his lip. “ _God_ , that’s so fucking sexy.”

Ouma rolled his eyes. “Pervert.”

Momota grinned. “You love it.”

Momota leaned down and kissed him, more slowly this time, as if he was savoring the taste of the blood on Ouma’s lips. Ouma hummed against his lips as he kissed him back, feeling his heartbeat race as Momota buried his hands on his hair, pulling hard _—_ He gasped, and Momota used it as a chance to deepen the kiss further, his tongue exploring the crevices of his mouth…

When they pulled back, they were both panting. Momota pressed his forehead against his, kissing the side of his lips as he murmured. “Stay for tonight.”

Ouma considered it. He knew he shouldn’t. If he did, he’d get in _so_ much trouble. But at that very moment, he simply didn’t care.

He smiled.  “Okay.”


	3. “Aren’t we playmates, Momota-chan?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma stays for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are you talking about? I'm totally not late for my supposed update schedule again. Nope. Nada. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy this update!
> 
> WARNINGS: NSFW ahead!

Momota was attracted to Ouma Kokichi.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that shit out. There was just… something about him. The moment he laughed when he saw the basement, Momota knew he was well and utterly _fucked_ , in more ways than one, hopefully. Truth be told, he was expecting Ouma to bail, to freak out, to get disgusted **—** he wasn’t the first person Momota showed his playground to, after all. In this world obsessed with the killing games, there were _some_ who gets intrigued about his hobbies every once in a while. Funny thing was, most of them thought he was kidding. Ouma was actually the first person who managed to impress him, and even go so far as to make the playground his own.

Momota couldn’t help but think how incredibly sexy it was, watching him drive that boy to suicide with just a few carefully chosen words. And when that blood sprayed all over him **—** _fuck,_ Momota could barely keep his hands to himself. He didn’t know if there was such a thing as a god, but if there was, he’d be willing to bet his kidneys he’s just as much of a sick fuck as he was. Because there’s no way _any_ fair god would ever grant a piece of shit like him the chance to meet someone like Ouma.

It almost felt as if Ouma Kokichi was _made_ for him. He was all he ever wanted and _more._ Momota wasn’t really a romantic person, no—in fact he was convinced that with the way he was he’d inevitably die alone and unloved. But having someone around, someone who enjoyed the same shit he does, was _so much better._

“Okay,” Ouma had replied. It was one word **—** _one simple word_ **—** and yet it filled Momota with euphoria. He felt a grin paint his face, a wave of excitement coursing through his veins. He couldn’t help it—he really _couldn’t_ —he just _had_ to kiss him again, pull him close against his body again, hear him gasp and whimper and cry out in pain—

“Momota— _ah…”_ Ouma moaned as Momota started nibbling on the same spot he had bitten him, creating a blotchy purplish mark that blossomed from underneath his milky white skin. Momota pulled on his hair once again, but this time it was to _force_ his neck back, giving him more access to his throat **.** He could practically feel Ouma’s body _melt_ against his, as his hands clutched on Momota’s shirt. The taller boy grinned.

“You’re trembling,” he teased. Ouma licked his lips.

 “Momota-chan’s lips feels so good…” he breathed, eyes glazed over with desire. Momota groaned _._ Fuck, he looked so fucking gorgeous, drenched in blood, looking up at him with those beautiful lilac eyes of his, half-lidded with pure lust… “Momota-chan," Ouma murmured.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice strangled. Ouma’s eyes sparkled as he put his hands over the taller boy's shoulders, tiptoeing to brush his lips against his.

“ _Fuck me._ ”

All semblance of self-control went flying out the window.

Momota growled as he lifted Ouma towards the nearby workbench, using his arm to sweep the toolboxes out of the way (some fell hard with a loud clatter, spilling all its contents all over the floor, but Momota didn’t give a flying fuck) as he crashed his lips back to Ouma's, conquering the inside of his mouth with his tongue. Ouma was a quick learner, it seemed, he was already responding to the kiss in ways that made Momota’s head spin. Like the way his tongue was now tentatively mirroring his rhythm, how his fingers were tugging at his hair, the way he was making broken gasps against his lips **—** Momota _groaned,_ feeling desire pulse inside his body, white hot and searing. He bit Ouma’s lip _hard_ , drawing blood. Ouma whimpered, but the pain only seemed to make him more eager, as his hand started tugging impatiently at Momota’s shirt **—**

“Take this _off,_ ” Ouma growled into the kiss. Momota pulled back and complied, shrugging the sleeves off of his uniform, before lifting his shirt off of him in one fell swoop. Ouma’s eyes widened at his display, and Momota couldn’t help but make a smug grin. He knew his chest and abdomen were eye candy, carrying bodies around is already pretty much a whole body workout, and Ouma looked like he wanted to _eat him all up._

“Like what you see?” Momota teased. Ouma gave him a look and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I _am_ very flattered,” Momota easily fired back as he let his hand wander to Ouma’s crotch, palming his growing hardness over his pants. The shorter boy  _hissed_ , thrusting instinctively against his touch. “Look at you,” Momota cooed. “Already so _pent up_ …”

Ouma groaned. His eyes were still fixated on Momota’s chest. “F-Fine. _Maybe_ I do like it _just a little bit..._ ” he confessed. Momota took his hand and splayed it over the ridges of his abdomen, making him feel the muscles contract **—** Ouma blushed furiously as he leaned in with interest, tensing his fingers, _feeling_ him up **—** that is, until he glanced up at him through his lashes, baring his fingernails, _clawing_ at him, leaving angry red streaks against his skin **—**

_Fuck._ Momota sucked in gasp through his teeth. He felt the pain all the way down to his cock. Ouma giggled as he locked his ankles on his hips and used it to pull him closer, mouth latching on his neck as he repeated the motion, this time harder **—**

“ _Fuck yes._ ” Momota groaned brokenly. It stung **—** it _hurt **—**_ but fuck if it didn’t feel _good_. He felt Ouma’s smirk against his skin, evidently pleased with himself, but Momota wasn’t about to let him do whatever he fucking wants. He leaned in and held Ouma’s hand by the wrist **—** the hand that was splayed on his abdomen **—** and with a feral grin he pulled it back forcefully, squeezing hard, feeling the flesh and bone give under his grip **—**

_Crack._

Ouma’s gasp of pain sounded like music to his ears.

“Ow! You— _fuck._ ” Ouma sounded strained and a little irritated, but Momota didn’t miss the way his cock twitched under Momota’s hand, or the way his breath hitched against his neck. “I’m right-handed, you moron! If you’re going to break a wrist, break the left!”

“Relax, love, I just dislocated it,” Momota replied with amusement as he thrusted sharply against Ouma, the wonderful friction making the shorter boy gasp in response. Ouma relaxed, eyes glazing over in lust as Momota tightened his grip on his wrist, tighter and tighter, knowing it would hurt _like a bitch **—**_

“ _A-Ah!_ ” Ouma squirmed, wincing, before a long drawled out moan escaped his lips. His body keeled over in pain, but he was breathing hard in a way that was less desperate and more gratified.  Momota noted with a bit of excitement that Ouma was getting off on this just as much as he was, and that thought was terribly, terribly _arousing._ He could already feel his own cock straining against the fabric of his pants, making a mess in his underwear **—** _god,_ he’s never been this painfully turned on all his life. He leaned in and kissed Ouma again, capturing the sobs and mewls he was letting out, tasting the blood still dripping from the cut he made on his lips. Ouma didn’t protest when Momota started pushing him down on the workbench, free hand unbuttoning his bloodstained uniform. It was taking so long, too _damn_ long **—** Momota growled as he _tore_ his uniform apart, buttons popping and flying everywhere **—**

“God, _you._ Are so…” Ouma groaned as Momota trailed kisses down his neck, sucking hard on his collarbone. “… _goddamn_ impatient **—** ” He arched his back and cried out, as Momota bit his nipple, hard **—**

Momota chuckled as he circled his tongue on the sensitive nub, making Ouma shiver. “We’ll go find the buttons later, baby.”

“You mean _you’ll_ find it later.”

“ _Fine,_ ” Momota snapped. He reached his hand down to Ouma’s pants, tugging at his belt and freeing it from the loops and buckles. Ouma giggled as he too tried to take off Momota’s, but with his injured wrist it was proving to be impossible. When he finally gave up, Momota decided to do the work himself, and somehow he was able to free their cocks with a bit of fumbling and pulling. As soon as he did he crashed his lips back to Ouma’s, not giving him any time to breathe as he wrapped his large hand around their erections and _pumped_ , taking advantage of his rough, calloused palms to gather more friction, thrusting against Ouma with abandon **—**

“M-Momota-chan!” Ouma gasped as he threw his head back. Momota’s mouth turned dry when he saw the graceful expanse of his neck, littered with red and purple hickeys. It was pure instinct that he acted upon as he grasped Ouma by the throat, watching his lilac eyes widen, before glinting dangerously. They both knew what he was going do, and _god_ if Ouma didn’t look absolutely thrilled. Momota grinned as he _squeezed_ , choking the breath out of him, watching him squirm from both the pleasure and the lack of oxygen **—** _Fuck_ , he looked so good. Momota groaned as his thrusts became more erratic, breaths becoming more hash and labored. Ouma’s uninjured hand grasped at his own, fingernails clawing at his skin, eyes turning more and more unfocused **—** _fuck fuck fuck._

And then… Ouma _smirked_. His voice stuttered, but his tone was challenging. “Y-You call that… choking, Momota-chan…?”

Momota almost came right then and there. He growled, squeezing _harder_ , giving Ouma what he _so_ obviously wanted, and soon enough the shorter boy was bucking, body shivering in desire, lips parting to let out a glorious cry **—** thick, white come erupted from his cock, but Momota was relentless. He didn’t stop, he simply continued pumping, continued thrusting, continued _squeezing,_ reducing Ouma into a ball of pure pleasure and overstimulation. Ouma looked _demolished_ as tears sprung in his eyes, squirming from his grasp. Momota would have _loved_ to torture him further, push him to the very limits where pleasure and pain mixed together and are virtually impossible to tell apart **—** but the image of him, sprawled at Momota’s workbench completely at his mercy, was simply too much. Momota came with a strangled groan, throwing his head back, riding out the ecstasy of his high. In the back of his head he was vaguely aware that he just climaxed with Ouma’s name lingering at the tip of his tongue.

He collapsed on top of Ouma, trying to catch his breath. He could hear the shorter boy’s heartbeat, racing and pounding, and it made him feel so good knowing it was him who was responsible for it. When he came down from his orgasm, Ouma commented with a shiver. “God, you are a _monster_ , Momota-chan.”

Momota grinned as he gave him a quick peck on the side of his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

* * *

Ouma told him to shower first, but Momota had a gut feeling it was only because the poor guy could barely feel his legs, or walk properly without his knees collapsing underneath him. Maybe Momota _did_ enjoy himself just a little too much with the overstimulation thing, but watching Ouma flush in embarrassment as he tried to walk (and failed, multiple times) was worth it. Even the fact that Ouma acted all pouty and pissed the first few minutes after their little session did nothing to dampen his determination to maybe do it again sometime.

The most amusing thing was: when he shared the sentiment, Ouma _glared._

Regardless, he did as he was told. Ouma cracked his right wrist back into place (who _does_ that? No matter how many times he sees proof of it, he could _never_ get over the amount of fucks Ouma doesn’t give when it comes to pain) and showered after him, borrowing some of his towels.

“You’re staring,” Ouma said as he finally got out of the shower, drying his hair with the towel. He was wearing boxers and an oversized shirt, one with a huge logo of NASA printed across the front. The clothes were Momota’s, of course, and he found it incredibly endearing to see Ouma in them. He shrugged.

“I can stare as much as I fucking want,” he replied, a fond smile on his face. “You look good in my clothes.”

Ouma grinned as he walked over, tiptoeing as he put his arms over his shoulders. “I’ll look even better without it…” he whispered.

Momota hummed low under his breath. “Don’t fucking tempt me. Besides, I’m hungry, so we should probably eat dinner first, before all the stores close down. I’ll order something," he said as he pulled back from Ouma, walking over to the phone in the kitchen, starting to dial a number **—**

“Why don’t I cook something for us instead?” Ouma suddenly asked. Momota’s eyes widened as he looked back at him. The shorter boy was already opening his fridge, scanning the contents for anything remotely edible. Momota tried to remember if he had anything in there. He _did_ try to cook earlier this week, when he got sick of eating the usual instant or ordered stuff. It ended up in a disaster, but maybe he still had some ingredients left in there?

“You cook?” he asked, putting the phone down. Ouma nodded, and instantly he felt amazed. Ouma was becoming more and more perfect every second. He had barely eaten anything homemade in the past few years. “ _God_ , I should just put you in a collar and a leash already,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Ouma looked amused when he raised an eyebrow at him. “ _What?”_

Momota chuckled as he leaned on the counter. “Don’t mind me, just plotting some ways I could convince you not to ever fucking leave me.”

“Possessive much?”

“Hell yeah, I am,” he replied, tilting his head a bit. “I’m just considering that maybe tying you up in my house would not be that bad of an idea.”

“Kinky,” Ouma teased with a faint smile as he took some ingredients from the fridge and laid them out on the counter. He was humming under his breath, looking a little livelier than he usually does at school, which was interesting. He brandished the kitchen knife with a bit of expertise, peeling and cutting vegetables with ease, and for some reason Momota felt something ache in his heart. The _tap-tap-tap_ of the knife against the chopping board resounded in the silence of the room. Ouma seem to realize his strange mood, as he looked up and gave him a look of question. “Momota-chan?”

“What are we, _Kokichi_?” he found himself asking. Ouma’s eyes widened, evidently taken off guard by the sudden use of his name. Why?  Was it too soon to act so familiar with him? He had already saved him, fucked him, and watched him drive someone to suicide in the short time they had known each other. He had never called anyone by name before, this was the very first time. Were there any social rules about calling people this way that he didn’t know about? He was pretty sure there weren’t, but then again it wouldn’t be the first time he missed social cues.

Ouma hummed as he looked back at the chopping board, seemingly mulling the question over. Finally, he replied. “Aren’t we playmates, Momota-chan?”

“Playmates,” Momota murmured, testing the word in his mouth. That’s true **—** they _are._ But for some reason it felt lacking. Why? It didn’t feel nearly enough. He wanted to be more than Ouma’s source of amusement. More than his source of pleasure and adrenaline. He wanted him to be his, completely and utterly _his_. He wanted him to be just as obsessed with him as he was.

That’s right. He was obsessed with Ouma Kokichi. He’s never been obsessed with a _person_ before.

Ouma continued on chopping. Momota observed him silently. Suddenly Ouma murmured.

“You mind if I call you _Kai-chan_?” He said it slowly, hesitantly. Momota’s heart skipped a beat. It felt… strange, but interesting. He blinked a few times, placing a hand on his chest. Ouma gave him a side glance, before making an amused giggle.

“Oooh, did you feel that in your heart? Did it skip for me, Kai-chan? How cheesy **—”**

“ _Yes,”_ Momota answered, feeling a little confused and weirded out. “It did.”

Ouma blinked, the smile fading from his lips. His cheeks were tinted pink as he looked away. “Oh.”

Silence. It went on for a few awkward moments, until finally Momota cleared his throat. “I’ll just… uhh… take care of the corpse in the basement.”

“Mm-kay! I’ll call you when dinner’s ready!” Ouma replied cheerfully.

“Right…” he trailed off, realizing just then how strange this situation was. Somehow Ouma was cooking dinner _for_ him, in _his_ house, planning to stay for the night. It all seemed so incredibly normal and domestic, if he wasn’t just about to go chop down a body and stuff it in a garbage bag for disposal.

The more he thought about it, the more the situation kind of amused him.

Disposing a body wasn’t as enjoyable as killing someone, he had to admit. The latter was rather fun, and the former was just... _work._ Though he _does_ enjoy the familiar revving of his chainsaw, the sense of satisfaction of sawing through flesh and bone and the still-warm blood spraying him in the face, it wasn’t nearly as gratifying as hearing his victims scream. Unfortunately, this part was necessary, unless he was willing for his personal playground to smell like rotting cadavers. Blood smelled good, but actual decomposing bodies? No thank you.

Momota pulled out a garbage bag from one of his toolboxes, and started his work. The feet was already there, looking pale and slightly blue. Momota worked methodically, first the head, then the arms and legs… the torso was a little tricky, he always ends up spilling the guts all over himself, but he supposed it can’t be helped. He ran his chainsaw lengthwise by the sternum, and then proceeded to slice off each rib **—**

Suddenly the door of the basement opened. Ouma peeked his head in. “Dinner?”

Momota stifled a smile. “I’m not done here yet.”

Ouma wrinkled his nose as he walked down the stairs. “Looks messy.”

“Mm.” Momota hummed as he tossed another piece into the garbage bag.

“How do you dispose the bodies anyway?” Ouma asked curiously.

Momota shrugged. “There’s a patch of abandoned beach at the end of this neighborhood. I try to make the pieces as unrecognizable as possible… then I use them as fish food.”

Ouma looked thoughtful. “The saltwater would destroy most of the evidence, and if people _somehow_ see the pieces they’ll either think it was some other dead animal or it washed off from some distant part of the sea.” His eyes sparkled, evidently impressed. “Smart.”

Momota puffed his chest out, pleased with himself. “Thanks.”

“Though won’t your neighbors get suspicious if they see you carrying around a heavy, blood-dripping garbage bag every few days to the beach?” Ouma asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yes… _if_ they see me.” He replied, a slow grin making its way to his face. “Though I’m afraid they’re no longer in a position to _see._ ”  Ouma blinked at his confidence, clearly realizing there was something he was missing. Momota could almost see the gears turning in his head, before his eyes widened in disbelief.

“We didn’t pass anybody when we were walking outside,” he murmured. “You _didn’t._ ”

Momota bit his lip to keep his chuckles from spilling.

“I _don’t_ believe it!” Ouma exclaimed. He sounded exasperated, but he was smiling. “An _entire_ neighborhood! How the hell have they _not_ caught you yet?!”

Momota couldn’t help it. Ouma’s reaction was priceless. He burst out laughing.

“I’m serious! Kai-chan!” Ouma insisted, looking amazed and amused.

Momota bit his lip to rein his laughter in. “You don’t give the government much credit for how much they want disappearances and murder cases to stay on the down low. You know, to keep up the ‘peaceful society’ charade. As far as the police was concerned, I’m just a poor orphaned highschool student who couldn’t bear to let go of my childhood home despite how dangerous the neighborhood is.” He tossed the final piece into the garbage bag, standing up and tilting his head cockily as he approached Ouma, a nonchalant grin painted on his face. “Besides, if they _do_ catch me, who _fucking_ cares? I’d most likely just be tossed into an empty prison, maybe given a death sentence if they’re trying to be all spicy and shit... then I can die with a big fucking smile on my face knowing I lived my life to the fullest and fuck if it didn’t feel _good._ ” He stopped in front of Ouma, letting that last word drop in pitch, in an almost whisper.

Ouma’s expression was blank. “That’s all you ever care about, isn’t it? What feels good _._ ”

Momota placed his right hand beside his head, making Ouma’s eyes widen as the taller boy leaned in and whispered. “I thought that was fairly obvious by now.” His voice was low and seductive as he let his hand trace the bruises down Ouma’s neck, evidence of their session earlier.

Ouma gave him an unimpressed look. “I just showered. Get your disgusting bloody hands off of me.”

“Oh, come on. You _love_ getting dirty.” Momota said as he bunched a bit of his hair, making him his breath hitch as his strong arm snaked past his waist, lifting him up on his toes. He peppered kisses down his neck, inhaling sharply with a low hum. “You smell good.”

“And you smell like death.”

A smug grin graced Momota’s face. “Does that turn you on?”

Ouma’s lips twitched as Momota tugged his shirt upwards.

“Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally don't think Momota's feelings for this AU is what what one would consider normal...? Well, nothing is normal in this AU anyways. You guys will find out soon, I guess, why Momota latched onto Ouma so quickly. Though I hope I can actually make it apparent without directly stating it in future chapters...


	4. [BONUS]: Under the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally Written for Oumota Week Day 1: Pregame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a ficlet I posted a while back in my ficlet collection here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14294415/chapters/34127013
> 
> I've decided to post this chapter in the actual fic too, since this is part of the actual story. This is just in case I reference something they talked about here in a later chapter. 
> 
> Within the next few hours after posting this here I'll be posting Chapter 5! So look forward to that, maybe?

“What’s with you and space?”

Momota paused as he looked up from the curry he’s been shoveling down his throat. “Hm?”

“I said,” Ouma repeated, as he tugged at the Momota-sized shirt he was wearing with the NASA logo on it, before proceeding to point outside the dining hall window all the way to the small telescope that was situated in the grass in Momota’s backyard. “What’s with you and space?”

Momota pondered the question as he swallowed his food. He was tempted to get himself another helping, it’s been so long since he’d last eaten homemade food (Ouma’s cooking was  _wonderful_ , goddammit, what did he ever do to deserve meeting this guy), but Ouma looked so curious. Head tilted slightly to the side, a missed bloodstain under his ear, a growing hickey near his collarbone, shirt crumpled and torn in places from their less than gentle make out sessions--- he looked like a mess. A  _hot_ mess, but somehow he still managed to make himself look so goddamn pure and innocent. Anyone who could suck dick  _that_ well should never be able to look this angelic, that was just illegal. Momota realized he’s getting distracted again, but could anyone really blame him? It was just so  _easy_ to be distracted while this guy is walking around in  _his_ home, parading in  _his_ clothes, but Ouma was already starting to look impatient, so Momota shrugged.

“My parents and I used to stargaze when I was younger. I got pretty obsessed with it, to be honest.”  _Not as obsessed as I am with you,_ he wanted to add, but he was pretty sure Ouma didn’t know that, and there was no reason to scare him off more than he should—not that Ouma was easily scared off to begin with. His reaction to his basement?  _Priceless._ “You can say it was my previous  _hobby_ , before I picked up this recent one. Still holds a place in my heart, though.”

Ouma gasped in mock shock, eyes wide. “Y-You mean, Kai-chan was  _almost_ a  _normal_ person with  _normal_ hobbies—”

Momota grabbed the closest thing he could get (a plastic fruit decoration from the middle of the table, apparently) and threw it in Ouma’s direction. The shorter boy nimbly dodged out of the way, giggling heartily, a mirth that wasn’t there this afternoon bubbling in those gorgeous eyes. Momota couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t—the burst of pride at the thought that it was he who put it there. That it was he who pulled Ouma out from the safety bubble of his head, that it was he who convinced Ouma that paying attention to this  _dreadful, boring_ world was still worth it, because there were still a lot of ways one could  _play_ and have fun, ways that didn’t involve the reality killing game show that Ouma proclaimed he hated.

“So Kai-chan likes space?” Ouma pressed, looking interested. “That’s kinda surprising. It didn’t really fit my image of you.”

“What’s your image of me?” Momota asked, amused. Ouma seem to mull it over.

“Hmm~ less stars and more blood and guts and chainsaws!” he cheerfully decided.

Momota shrugged. “I just... hate people.” he confessed. “So many lifeless,  _useless,_ sheep... walking and bleating about... they piss me off. But space doesn’t have any of those. It’s empty...  _gloriously_ empty.” He sighed dreamily.

Ouma’s eyes widened for a moment, before he made a dejected expression. “So you don’t want people around... Even me?” Crocodile tears edged at his eyelids. “K-Kai-chan?! That’s so mean—”

Momota shot him an amused look and rolled his eyes. “Oh,  _shut up._ ” He retorted. “You’re different.”

“How different?”

“ _Good_ different.”

The shorter boy smiled as if that was he wanted to hear. He started skipping off in the direction of the back door, and Momota followed after him, amused. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“Abandoning you!” Ouma teased.

“Should I get the handcuffs?” Momota teased back, which only made Ouma giggle harder, visibly amused about his outright admission of his overly possessive tendencies. The shorter boy shook his head in amusement as he opened the back door, excited to go outside. He didn’t really look  _decent_ enough to walk out there, actually. Momota didn’t even know if he already put his underwear back on, since his shirt was so goddamn big on him—but that was an interesting thought to explore for later. It didn’t really matter if Ouma decided to go out of his house stark naked, there wasn’t a living soul aside from them in this entire neighborhood. Nobody would see. Nobody but Momota.

“Hurry! Come out here! Teach me how to use the telescope, Kai-chan!” Ouma called out. Momota felt a smile tug at his lips—Ouma was interested in about  _every goddamn thing_ Momota was enamored with, and that in of itself was a wonder to behold. Momota never believed the idea of soulmates before, it just sounded pretty stupid, but now... he was tempted to.

Smiling, Momota walked out of the house into the backyard, and saw that Ouma was looking up, gasping at the sight of the stars, so brightly lit in the night sky. They were pretty close to the city, so he supposed Ouma was used to the light pollution obscuring it, but now with the lack of lights from all the other houses around them, it helped bring them all out. Ouma looked amazed, as if he’s never seen something like this before. Everything was just nice... beautiful...  _peaceful._

Momota didn’t know much about Ouma’s personal issues, but he had a feeling that the boy has never known peace for a single second in his life. And the fact that he found it right here, in the company of a literal serial killer, was no less than ironic. Momota still remembered the bruises he saw while they were fooling around, bruises that he  _knew_ he didn’t put on him... he clenched his fists. Ouma wasn’t a damsel in distress, he reminded himself. The guy could fight his own battles. He had proven it to Momota countless times, that the only thing holding him back was  _himself,_ and he just needed a push to unravel and let loose, just like he did in the basement earlier—a scenery that still brought shivers down the taller boy’s spine.

Momota leaned against the doorframe as he watched him, fascinated. Under the moonlight, he was stunning, with that lithe frame and milky white skin. When he looked back at Momota his eyes seem to go on forever, not unlike the stars above, and Momota was transfixed, caught under the spell.

“They’re pretty.” Ouma said, breathlessly.

“Not as pretty as you.” Momota found himself saying.

Ouma stared at him with those wide lilac eyes, before a flush crept up his cheeks, pink and bashful and so  _fucking adorable,_ it was a mystery how Momota was able to stop himself from kissing him again right then and there. Ouma laughed, a cheerful, carefree laugh that he never lets out at school, and Momota found himself smiling, as he walked over and ruffled his hair.

“Kai-chan is getting soooo cheesy!” Ouma was saying, teasingly. “Gross.”

“Shut up.” Momota retorted, as he started fiddling with the telescope.

“Could it be that you’re falling for little old me?”

 _Would it be so bad if I am?_ Momota thought, but he held his tongue and peeked through the eyepiece, making a small noise under his throat. “Shut. _Up._ ”

“Make me.”

That caught his attention. He pulled back from the telescope and gave Ouma a questioning look, to which the smaller boy returned with a sultry smirk, as he fiddled with the hem of shirt, lifting it up just a little bit—

 _Fuck._ Momota was right. He wasn’t wearing his underwear. He didn’t know if the groan he let out was from desire or aggravation. “ _God,_ you are _insatiable._ ”

Ouma giggled. “Oh, I’m the insatiable one?”

Momota grinned as he left the telescope in favor of capturing Ouma, the shorter boy letting out a small squeak as he caught him by the hips, a squeak that immediately turned into muffled moans the moment Momota pressed his lips against his. Hungry, greedy,  _devouring_ kisses that left the smaller boy breathless, sighing against the force of Momota’s grip.

They fucked under the stars, moaning and gasping and giggling and laughing like the dumb teenagers they were, and Momota didn’t hate it, not really. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t resent the existence of another person.

It was  _almost_ romantic.  _Almost_ heartwarming.  _Almost_ beautiful.

And then Ouma whispered in his ear. “Choke me again.”

Momota laughed, but he was more than willing to comply. As he watched Ouma’s eyes glaze over with lust, he realized that things didn’t have to be romantic, heartwarming, or beautiful with Ouma for it to feel so  _goddamn right._ They started their usual song and dance once again, letting their bodies do the talking—bites that were hard but never hard enough, hisses that were pained but never pained enough, bruises that were dark but never dark enough...

It was painful. It was messy. It was  _perfect_. It was all Momota ever wanted. And at that moment he decided: he’d never— _ever—_ let this go.

He’d never ever let  _him_  go.


	5. “What, just because I’m a serial killer, I can’t care about someone else’s needs?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Packed lunches and irritating sheep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the ficlet "Under the Stars" yet, please go back one chapter and read it. It might be mildly important in the future. 
> 
> Emphasis on "might"

Ouma woke up to the sensation of kisses dotting around his neck. For a moment, he felt utterly confused. _Did the fucker finally got tired of beating the shit out of me?_ He wondered with morbid amusement, at least until he opened his eyes, blinking softly at the appearance of an unfamiliar ceiling.

That was when he remembered. _Ah, that’s right. I stayed at Kai-chan’s last night._ The thought made him smile, as he hummed in response to the kisses, craning his neck to give Momota better access. Momota made a low growl in his throat, a growl that instantly sent heat down his spine, making him moan softly. Momota smiled against his skin before he pulled back and gave him a grin so breathtaking it made Ouma’s knees feel weak.

“Good morning,” Momota greeted. He had a nasty case of bedhead, but his eyes were lit up, excited.

“Morning,” Ouma replied as he lazily stretched, realizing just then that they were still both naked. Heat crept up his cheeks, but he ignored it in favor of looking around to see the clock. It read **6:03 AM**. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “School day today, huh? Did we ever manage to get my uniform in the dryer?”

Momota snickered. “I don’t know, you were too busy choking on my cock.”

Ouma rolled his eyes. “You and your filthy mouth.”

“You love it.”

Ouma stifled a smile as he stared down at the aftermath of their trysts last night. His pale skin was littered with bruises, and while that was nothing new, this time he felt quite fascinated as he stared at each and every one of them, recalling exactly when he was graced with each mark _—t_ _his was the time Kai-chan kissed me on the kitchen counter. This was the bite in the basement. This was when he literally threw me on the bed._ He giggled, feeling giddier with each passing second. Last night was… fun. The most fun he had in his utterly boring life. He couldn’t even _begin_ to count how many times he and Momota made out _—_ Momota was a fucking monster, his stamina was endless, and maybe being hormonal teenagers helped but if refractory periods didn’t exist, Ouma was pretty sure they would have never managed to finish dinner or go to sleep. While Ouma had always lived his life on the down low, Momota had apparently made a point to seek every and _any_ high possible _—_ Ouma wished he could follow his example someday.

_“That’s all you ever care about, isn’t it? What feels good.”_

Ouma's smile faded as his hand ghosted along the bruises on his arm. 

_“I thought that was fairly obvious by now.”_

_What feels good... huh._ Ouma bit his lip, his thoughts swirling, but before the idea could form, he was immediately distracted by Momota kissing his neck. When the taller boy spoke, he sounded breathless. “God, I wanna cut you up and crawl inside you.” The shorter boy laughed, knowing Momota meant every word of it.

“You won’t fit,” Ouma, ever logical, reminded him.

Momota made a small grunt that Ouma recognized as mildly frustrated, before he perked up yet again. “Well, it’s not like that’s the only way to be inside you.” He grinned.

Ouma cocked his head innocently. Was that supposed to be one of his sexual advances? The way Momota grinned suggested it was, so he replied. “Kai-chan can use my mouth however he likes.” It was true. Momota made it pretty clear he owns that mouth last night. The memory still made him shiver. 

His grin didn’t falter. “I wasn’t talking about your mouth.” 

This only confused him more. His reaction must have been amusing, because Momota had to bite his lip to keep himself from bursting in laughter. “God, you _are_ a virgin, aren’t you?”

“I believe the more accurate word is _were._ ”

“In some ways, yes,” Momota agreed as he ran his finger on his lips. Ouma opened his mouth and caught his finger between his teeth, making Momota’s eyes darken with lust. “But at the same time… you’re still so fucking pure and innocent…” he trailed off. “I want to taint the _shit_ out of you.”

“What do you mean?” Ouma asked, his breaths turning more and more labored, breathing over the finger in his mouth. Fuck, it’s six in the morning, and he’s already hard. The things Momota do to him…

Momota grinned as he pressed his finger further in, looking transfixed as Ouma sucked it, _hard._ Momota groaned. “Do you know how two men fuck _,_ Kokichi?”

Ouma didn’t reply. He was too busy swirling his tongue on Momota’s finger, as if it was his cock.

“Good boy…” Momota praised as he pulled out his finger, the digit looking wet and shiny from saliva. Ouma whined at the loss, but Momota shut him up easily with his mouth, kissing him tenderly. His damp finger traced its way down his sternum, his abdomen, further down the length of his cock, further down, further _down—_

Ouma gasped as he felt the damp digit press against his… _huh? There? What…?_ Momota grinned against his lips as he massaged the spot, and Ouma felt a shiver go down his spine. He groaned as he felt liquid heat grow in his belly, an odd excitement filling his veins. Momota kept circling his finger, over and over _—_ _is he going to put it in?_ God, Ouma wanted him to put it in. He had no fucking idea what it would feel like, but he felt so _empty_ , and feeling it there just on the surface, _knocking_ on his entrance, was driving him crazy.

And then… the motions stopped. Ouma blinked, dazed, but Momota simply pulled back, looking pleased with himself. “Today’s a school day, Kokichi. We better get ready.”

Ouma’s eyes widened in indignation. He didn’t just _—h_ e _couldn’t_ just _—_ _of course he_ did _._ He’s Momota _fucking_ Kaito. Ouma groaned as he covered his face.

“You’re a fucking piece of shit,” he grumbled, genuinely irritated. Momota laughed as he stood up, taking a shirt from the floor and pulling it over his head with ease. And then, to Ouma's aggravation, the fucker _winked._

“Just making sure you’d have something else to look forward to, should you decide to stay over again, you know? Maybe if I’m lucky, I can seduce you back here tonight.”

A chill ran down Ouma’s spine. Tonight? _Unlikely._ In fact, there was a possibility that Momota wouldn’t see him again for a long, long time…

He decided not to mention it. Not when Momota already talked about locking him up in this house only yesterday. While Ouma was not entirely opposed to the idea of staying with him, he preferred having his freedom, thank you very much. He stared back down at his body, filled with bruises as usual… but these were bruises that he _liked,_ bruises that he _willingly_ took, bruises that he _wanted_ to see on his skin.

Maybe Ouma could lie his way out of trouble. Tell _him_ that he was beaten black and blue by some bullies and passed out somewhere in the cold. Maybe he’d like that. He’s always been kind of a sadist.

Not that it would save Ouma from _punishment._ But at this point… it’s not like he really cared.

* * *

“Tell me about yourself.”

Ouma glanced back at him, looking distracted. They were already wearing their uniforms (though Ouma also wore an apron), and Momota felt a little disappointed at how the fabric hid most of the bruises he’d left on the shorter boy’s skin. Maybe he should’ve left the hickey a little higher on his neck. He resolved to do it next time. That way whenever someone looks at Ouma… they’d know someone already marked him as property.

The thought gave Momota a bit of satisfaction.

Ouma seemed the mull his statement over as he whisked the eggs in a bowl, cooking what Momota assumed would be their breakfast. At one point earlier, Momota asked if he could help him, but after cracking the eggs with his fists and sending eggshells down with the egg white Ouma had given him a look and told him to stay on the table and _watch_. So he did.

“What does Kai-chan want to know about me?” he asked. “Let’s see… I’m Ouma Kokichi. My birthday is June 21, that makes me a Gemini. I live a few blocks from school…” he trailed off as he abandoned the eggs and started chopping some meat and vegetables and heating the pan _—_ _That’s a lot of preparation for breakfast for two,_ Momota thought. In the corner, Ouma was reheating the leftover curry from last night. “I live with my stepdad. Mom died a while back.”

“Hmm…” Momota hummed as he drank his coffee. The coffeemaker is something he _at least_ knew how to operate. “You didn’t even bother to call him yesterday. Won’t he be worried?”

Ouma let out a small sound, as if he stifled a sudden laughter. “Kai-chan, you’re so funny.”

Momota cocked an eyebrow. “I wasn’t trying to be but… thank you?”

The smell of the rice Ouma was frying filled the kitchen. It smelled good... _r_ _eally_ good. Fucking hell, he didn’t think he’d be able to go back to fast food and instant noodles after last night, when he tasted the best curry he had ever fucking tasted. And now Ouma is cooking. Homemade food. For him. Again. An unfamiliar warmth expanded in his chest. He frowned as he tried to decipher what this strange sensation meant. Was he excited? No… excitement burns hot and bright, like how he feels when he carves a knife through flesh. Excitement leaves him breathless, but this sensation makes him feel… light. This was… a slow burn, like the low heat on Ouma’s curry, like the slow song of the radio in the background.

 _Ah._ He realized with wonder. _I’m happy._

Momota’s stomach growled. Ouma didn’t look back at him, but he sounded amused. “I heard that.”

Momota shrugged, smiling. “Aren’t you going to do something about it?”

“So impatient, Kai-chan!” Ouma said as he started putting the rice in the plate, placing the eggs over it. “But of course, to show my gratitude for the wonderful time I had last night, behold!” He turned around with a flourish, grinning from ear to ear. It reminded Momota of the time they met in the school rooftop, though this time instead of jumping down, he placed two plates down on the table, the smell of the food wafting towards Momota’s nose.

Momota stared at it. Omelet rice. It looked good, and he nodded approvingly. Though the fact that Ouma didn’t serve the leftover curry and the meat he was chopping earlier kind of mystified him… Ouma playfully took the bottle of ketchup and stood beside him, giving him a megawatt smile. “Good morning, Master! What would you like me to write on your omelet rice?” he teased, like a maid in some anime, and it looked awfully fitting, especially since he was still wearing that apron. Momota snorted and flicked at his forehead. 

“Weirdo,” he said with a fond smile.

Ouma giggled as he set down the bottle of ketchup. Momota expected him to sit down where he’d placed the other plate and start eating, but to his surprise the shorter boy turned back to the kitchen counter and replied. “You can start eating now if you want. I’ll just finish up in here.”

 _Finish up?_ What did he need to finish up? Momota watched him silently as he started eating his breakfast. Ouma first turned off the heat on the curry, nodding in approval before he started fumbling over the cupboards, looking for something. As soon as he found it, Momota frowned. It was those rectangular containers that has always been there but Momota never used. Ouma then cooked some more, and when everything was finished he started piling the egg rolls, meat, hotdogs shaped like octopuses and stir-fried vegetables on one side, and then rice to the other. He then poured some curry into another container, closed the lid and took a handkerchief (did he get that from Momota’s room earlier?) and secured the two containers together _—_

“Wait, what the fuck,” Momota said as he stood up, unable to contain his curiosity anymore. He stood beside him and stared at the… familiar thing sitting on his kitchen counter. A certain familiar thing he had _never_ imagined would appear in his kitchen.

Ouma gave him a look. “It’s a packed lunch, Kai-chan.”

“I-I know that,” he snapped, as he lifted the lunch and stared at it. “This thing…” He gave Ouma a wary look. “It’s mine, right?”

“Yep!” Ouma replied enthusiastically. Momota stared at the packed lunch as if it would disappear. He could vaguely remember a few girls handing him a packed lunch before, but not only was he uninterested, he found their giggling annoying as well. So he politely (through gritted teeth) declined. He supposed that must have meant some sort of rejection to them, because most of them left in tears. It didn’t matter to him, because he didn’t have any interest in people anyways. But that was… before Ouma.

“Kai-chan?”

He blinked a few times. “Uhh… yeah?”

He was brought back to the present when he felt it, a kiss on his cheek, familiar lips turned up into a smile, and when he looked down he saw Ouma in tiptoes, eyes sparkling, looking very much amused. “Kai-chan likes being taken care of, doesn’t he?”

He felt heat creep up his neck. _Huh, that’s weird._ And then there’s the sudden urge to cover his face. _Really, really weird…_ Ouma’s eyes widened in genuine surprise, before he gasped, delighted.

“You’re blushing!” he exclaimed.

 _I am?_ He didn’t even know he could blush. Momota looked away and cleared his throat. “W-Well… I just think this is…” He stared at the packed lunch yet again. “… nice.”

“Hmm~!” Ouma hummed as he walked towards the table and sat down to eat. “I’m glad.”

That was when Momota realized something. “Where’s yours?”

Ouma blinked mid-bite. “Where’s what?”

“ _Your_ packed lunch. There has to be enough here to make another one, right?”

Ouma’s smile, for some reason, became slightly strained. Yet he refused to acknowledge it and simply shrugged nonchalantly. “I won’t need it.”

 _Won’t need… what?_ Momota frowned. “Bullshit. You’re light as a feather. I could literally carry and throw you around last night.”

Ouma cocked an eyebrow. “Wow, I didn’t know Kai-chan cared so much about me! That’s unbecoming for you.”

“What, just because I’m a serial killer, I can’t care about someone else’s needs?” 

Ouma seemed to mull this over. He placed a finger on his cheek as he hummed, looking deep in thought, but finally he replied, “Okay, then! If Kai-chan insists, I suppose I could make a packed lunch for myself as well! It’s Kai-chan’s money that’s going to be wasted if I didn’t manage to eat it anyway.”

Momota scowled.  “Why won’t you manage to eat it?”

“Hmm~ I dunno! Weird things happen in the world, Kai-chan!” Deflection. He didn’t really answer the question. Ouma stood up and started packing his own lunch, but Momota noted that Ouma took way less food for himself compared to what he gave Momota. When asked, the shorter boy only replied with “You’re a growing boy! Besides, I need to maintain my figure!” which was obviously a lie, but Momota decided not to push it for now. They were getting late, so he shoved his omelet rice into his mouth, watching Ouma eat heartily. He didn’t seem to have any problems about eating, really, so why be so weird about lunch? It’s almost as if… Ouma was expecting something to happen. As if he knew he’d somehow miss lunch today. That made Momota wonder.

When they arrived at the school gates, he found himself saying. “We should eat lunch together.”

Ouma blinked, genuinely surprised. “Oh? But you always have other friends to eat lunch with, don’t you?”

The implication that their presence can even _remotely_ compete with Ouma’s made him roll his eyes. “Well, duh, of course I do. But I want _you_.”

Ouma paused. He opened his mouth… and closed it. Then he smiled cheerfully. “I’d _love_ to eat lunch with Kai-chan.”

Momota grinned. That’s good. Whatever Ouma was expecting to happen, Momota would be there to see what it was and sate his curiosity. Besides, he loved spending time with Ouma anyway, so it was like killing two birds with one stone. Or killing two human beings with a single swipe of the chainsaw, maybe. The thought made him chuckle. He spent the rest of the morning thinking about Ouma, excited about seeing him again, hyperaware that his packed lunch was inside his bag. A packed lunch Ouma made for him. He wasn’t very proud of it, but it made him giddy. It was only later that he realized it.

Ouma didn’t say yes.

* * *

The school bell immediately ripped Momota from his daydreaming, the notebook on his desk filled with nothing but mindless scribbles and an occasional doodle of knives and cleavers in red ballpoint ink. It was lunch. Normally he wouldn’t show any signs of his hobbies so out in the open, but apparently it was normal for kids his age to show some ‘angst’ every once in a while. Some of his ‘friends’ were already approaching him, asking if he’d like to eat lunch together, but he politely declined, saying he had plans. When he pulled out the packed lunch from his bag, their eyes widened, and a part of him soared at the obvious curiosity lingering in their gazes. Him being kinda popular in this school was a little irritating sometimes, but it was also the reason that people knew Momota Kaito _doesn’t_ bring packed lunches to school and _doesn’t_ accept packed lunches at school… making their curiosity even more obvious and apparent. He grinned widely, if not a little gloatingly, as he walked out of their classroom, easily arriving at Ouma’s in the next few minutes.

“Ah, Momota-kun! Hey,” someone greeted with a smile.

“Hey…” he trailed off. This guy… ugh what was his name? Momota genuinely didn’t remember. But he was the same guy (sheep?) he was with yesterday, the one he ditched to talk to Ouma. He supposed that’s why it looked a little unsettled… _should I mend the friendship or let the bridge burn?_ Momota wondered. _Ah, fuck it._ He didn’t have time for it right now. He simply smiled his usual charming smile and asked, “Is Kokichi around?”

The sheep blinked, clueless. “Kokichi?”

“ _Ouma_ Kokichi.”

Now, the sheep looked even more uncomfortable. It must have been because of Momota referring to Ouma so familiarly. It stared at Momota as if he’s grown two heads, especially when it saw the packed lunch he was holding. “Uhh… no. Ouma-kun got called in the faculty this morning. Some problem at home… so he’s not really present right now.”

Momota’s smile faded. _What?_

“Anyway, since you’re here already, Momota-kun _—_ wanna eat lunch together?” the sheep offered. Momota barely heard him. _He’s gone._ An irritation was seeping in his chest, burning white hot against his insides, but he’s nothing if not good at containing his anger and pretending like a functional human being. So he masked his disappointment and grinned. “Sure! We didn’t get the chance to hang out together yesterday, let me make it up for you.” 

_Mend the friendship, it is._

The sheep had a small circle of friends, one he easily clicked into. Momota had an eager and likeable personality after all, even those who haven’t talked to him before easily got comfortable in his presence. He supposed having a group of friends in Ouma’s class would be useful in the near future, so he made sure to keep his reactions appropriate, despite the fact that he was seething just beneath the surface.

Ouma _ditched_ him. Ouma _fucking_ Kokichi had the _nerve_ to ditch him. He knew he wasn’t going to be available, but he didn’t tell him anyway. Why? Why why why why _why_?! He didn’t get it! He was _nothing_ but good to him last night! Did Momota not matter to him at all? The thought of not mattering to Ouma Kokichi was _unbearable._ The thought of not mattering to the _one_ person he wanted his whole goddamn life was _torture._ No _—_ fuck that. He would _make_ himself matter to Ouma. He’ll break Ouma until Momota Kaito becomes his _whole fucking world._ Ouma would regret this. Because he _belongs_ to Momota. He just didn’t know it yet.

_You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine you’re mine you’re mine you’re mine you’re mineyou’remine **you’remineyou’remineYOU’REMINEYOU’RE—**_

A gasp. “Momota-kun, your lunch looks so good! Did you make it yourself?” some girl asked. The way she stared at Momota implied she wasn’t merely asking out of curiosity _—_ she was gathering information of his availability in the dating pool. Momota almost scowled _—_ _almost—_ but he remembered to hold his expression.

“Haha, I actually don’t know how to cook. Someone made this for me. Someone I’m interested in,” he answered honestly. And maybe his eyes stared at the food a little _too_ fondly, because the girl let out a small disappointed huff, while the rest of the group started teasing him, asking about who the mystery girl was. It irked him a little that it had to be a _girl—_ but whatever. He grinned. “It’s actually a guy. I’m an equal opportunist, you guys. I think you’d would know him well, he’s your classmate.”

Confused looks all around, except for the sheep he was with yesterday, who bleated. “It’s Ouma Kokichi, isn’t it? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Momota’s smile twitched. He gazed back at the sheep coldly, despite his smile being intact. But he supposed it must have been a dumb one. It didn’t realize it was bleating annoyingly in front of a merciless wolf.

“He’s a weirdo! I already told you, Momota-kun! I once tried to talk to him, and all I got were noncommittal shrugs _—”_ _that’s because you bore him, moron_ “ _ **—**_ and he always looks either lost or dazed, there were rumors in middle school that he’s even an addict or something _ **—** " _ _the only thing he’d be addicted when I’m done with him is me_ “ _ **—**_ and I swear, I’ve been his neighbor for years, and I’ve _never_ seen him go out at all _ **—”**  _ _so fucking what?_ “ _ **—**_ and I don’t care if he’s smart, but we all know those types, he’s bound to be a NEET someday.”

Their other companions started talking to each other about the subject. Most of them don’t know what to make of Ouma, while others didn’t even realize he existed. Momota supposed that’s just how unremarkable Ouma’s presence in this classroom was, how tiny he makes himself up to be. But that wasn’t the Ouma Momota knew. The Ouma he knew was the one who stood up and gestured like a magician in the school rooftop, the Ouma who laughed hard at his first glance at Momota’s basement, the Ouma who drove that boy to suicide, the Ouma who asked to be fucked, the Ouma who cooked dinner for him, the Ouma who made him a packed lunch, the Ouma who giggled, who smiled, who moaned, who teased, who sucked his cock like his life depended on it _ **—**_

“I guess I just know him better than you do,” he told the sheep, grinning. Baring his teeth in warning. _Try me and you’ll regret it._

The sheep was stupid. “Trust me, Momota-kun. I’ve known him for _years._ ”

That’s it. Momota decided he didn’t need it anymore. The sheep already introduced him to this group they’re eating lunch with after all. Even if it disappeared, Momota won’t lose his connections to this class anymore. The sheep has bleated loudly enough. The sheep has annoyed him badly enough. Momota hoped its screams as he teaches it fear and pain _ **—**_ as Momota turned it _human_ again _ **—**_ would at least be satisfying.

“Hm…” Momota hummed noncommittally, before nibbling at his hot dog. There was one piece that vaguely looked like it had Ouma’s floppy hair, and one that had Momota’ spikes. Childish, he knew, but it still made him smile.

A guy from the group (the good-natured one, Momota noted), smiled as he too noticed the shaped hotdogs. “Well, whether this Ouma Kokichi is likeable or not, we can’t deny this lunch looks like it’s made with love, can we?”

Momota blinked. _Made with love?_ He stared at it, feeling a smile tug at his lips.

He liked that.

* * *

When the bell rang again, signaling the end of the lunch break, Momota pulled the offending sheep in a corner.

“Hey,” he said, smiling excitedly. “Wanna come over to my house tonight?”

Its eyes widened, and then it smiled apologetically. “That would be pretty cool, Momota-kun but… ugh… it’s a school day tomorrow, man, we can’t just…”

Momota expected that, but he knew its types like the back of his hand. He knew what kind of bait he needed set. “Dude, you’d seriously regret it if you don’t come over my house tonight. Because guess what this guy got in the mail this morning.” He paused for dramatic effect, and the sheep waited in anticipation. “Danganronpa VR! Trigger Happy Havoc, in Kirigiri’s perspective! It’s an early release, and I fucking got it!”

It gasped in disbelief. “Seriously?! It wasn’t supposed to come out until next month.”

“Oh, come on, would I lie to you?”

“You won’t.” It grinned. “Wow, that’s crazy! I totally wanna see it now!”

Momota grinned back. _Bingo._ He lowered his voice in a whisper. “But just… uhh… don’t tell anyone about it for now. Actually, don’t tell anyone you’re coming over, that’s even better.”

It frowned. “Why?”

“Because if they find out, imagine how many people is going to _beg_ me to let them play it.” Momota chuckled heartily. “Besides, this is just between us, but you’re my _best friend_ , okay? I wanna finish it with you first, before I share it to the entirety of the school. God knows how many of my friends would be coming over.” He patted its back and winked. “But you’re my favorite, so you get the VIP pass.” It nearly blushed at that, which Momota found hilarious. He stared walking off, giving him a bit of a salute. “See ya!”

That day, Momota would go home early. That day, his doorbell would ring. That day, the clueless sheep would come in excitedly, and Momota would usher him in. That day, there would be another bloodstain on the carpet as he knocked him out at the back of the head. 

That day, the sheep would learn how to beg for its life. That day, the sheep would realize that the being killed for amusement, in reality, wasn’t fun at all.

That day, the sheep became human, but it’s not like it mattered.

After all, he never got out of Momota’s basement _whole._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are not weebs like me, making packed lunches (bento) for their crush/love interest is a rather common, kinda cultural practice for females in Japan. That's why Momota's classmates have been making a big deal out of it. 
> 
> NEET means "Not in Education, Employment, or Training". The term is sometimes used with derogatory connotations to mean shut-ins, bums, layabouts with no future.


	6. "I love you..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momota and memories simply don't mix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we get some insight on skau!Momota's way of thinking. Enjoy! :)
> 
> WARNING: Graphic Depiction of Violence ahead. Some NSFW content too. Please proceed with caution.

****_"Kai-chan.”_

_A soft voice, smooth as silk. A sly smile, dark like poison… but enticing all the same. Lilac eyes that go on forever. Soft lips that murmurs sweet nothings in his ear. He was all long legs and slender shoulders, milky white skin that bruised and broke and bled so damn easily…_

_“Kai-chan.”_

_Soft, tender caresses. Lewd, obscene moans. Momota pulled him closer, tighter, but the fucker stepped back, giggling as he started walking away._

_“Wait.” Momota growled. He didn’t listen. He’s getting away—_ no, please, I want you, stop— _and then Momota was falling, falling hard, knowing it wasn’t going to end well, because nobody was going to catch him._  
  


When Momota woke up, he was _pissed._

Not because the alarm was ringing like crazy next to his ear, so annoying that he just _had_ to throw it on the wall and watch it shatter to pieces. Not because there was drool on the page of his unfinished math homework, the very same homework he had fallen asleep on last night. Not because he could hear his current prisoner thumping hard against the bolted door of his basement downstairs.

No— it was because when his eyes strayed to the calendar in his bedroom wall, he realized it has been a full fucking _month_ since Ouma stayed over. A full goddamn _month_ since he’d last seen him.

God help that little gremlin. Momota is going to strangle the _shit_ out of him.

* * *

Days had become dull since the day Ouma disappeared, the very same day he ditched Momota at lunch. Momota spent a lot of time hanging around his class, and yet nobody, not even his teachers, seemed to care about where he had gone. That was unsurprising, really, with Ouma being the way he was. He was asocial, he didn’t have anything close to a friend in school, and thus nobody really cared enough to figure out happened to him. Nobody but Momota.

It was strange, really, how his disappearance had leeched Momota’s world of color. How the things he used to enjoy didn’t seem so fun anymore. Momota just wanted Ouma back in his life, her would do _anything_ to get Ouma back in his life, anything, everything _,_ whatever it takes, whatever the cost, _please—_

_“Kai-chan likes being taken care of doesn’t he?”_

Momota shuddered as he felt a wave of pleasure run down his spine, settling in his belly, making him moan as he leaned against the bathroom wall. The tiles were cool against his forehead, droplets of water raining on him from the shower head above, flowing down his naked body. His thoughts were filled with Ouma, and Ouma alone. Memories of their night together flashed inside his head, and he let it consume him, because _at_ _least_ in his fantasies Ouma was right here— touching him, kissing him, taking him— _oh god._

A giggle. _Fuck,_ what he’d do to hear that giggle again. He bit his lip as he pumped his fist on his cock, moving on nothing but primal desperation. He remembered the time Ouma took him inside his mouth— that’s always a pleasant memory, isn’t it— the shorter boy kneeling in front of him, glancing up modestly through the flutter of his plum-colored eyelashes, opening his mouth just a little bit, kissing the tip before running his soft tongue against his length—

— and _baring his teeth._

Momota groaned brokenly as he threw his head back. Fuck, Ouma was so goddamn hot when he drops that meek, shy mask of his and shows Momota just how much of a sadist he could be. He needed to let loose some more, really, the boy was way too restrained for his own good, but in that moment, Ouma had let his inhibitions abandon him. Back then Ouma had sucked him like the good little cocksucker that he was, alternating soft and rough and soft and _rough_ and driving Momota crazy—

_“Let me come, Kokichi, fuck—-“_

_“But where’s the fun in that?”_

Momota cursed as he felt himself getting closer, moving his hand faster, so much so that he could feel his arms starting to tire. But the friction sent a delicious shiver through his whole being, as he brushed his bangs away with his free hand, biting his lip hard—

_“If Kai-chan begs, maybe I’d let him come.”_

A growl. _“I_ own _that mouth, Kokichi. I don’t need to beg to get access to my_ property. _”_

 _“Oh really?”_ A cock of an eyebrow. Voice lowering into a sultry whisper. _“Prove it.”_

A hand gripping plum-colored hair. A gasp, followed by muffled whining, as Momota _forced_ his cock inside his mouth, fucking it senseless. His dazed lilac eyes filled with liquid lust, tears of exertion springing out at the edges— but Ouma only pulled him closer. His mouth eagerly met his thrusts. His body shivered in delight every time Momota’s cock hits the back of his throat, over and over and over and over and over and—

“F-Fuck… _Kokichi!_ ” Momota let out a strangled gasp as he came in his hand, shuddering all over as his legs almost collapsed underneath him, his body doubling over as spurts of come stained the bathroom wall…

 _Dissatisfaction_.

Momota stared at his come numbly as it was washed away by the water, going down the drain. _Ouma would have swallowed it._ he thought. But Ouma wasn’t here right now. He wasn’t here anymore. Fuck, what if Momota never sees him again? The thought made his eyes widen, an unfamiliar feeling rippling through his senses—panic. _No… no no no no NO! WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?! COME BACK!_

Momota vaguely registered the sound of glass crashing, and the next thing he knew his fist was stinging with pain. He only realized a moment later that he had punched straight through the bathroom mirror, ruining his fist in the process, as his own blood dripped down the glassy debris. He stared at his reflection, at his expression, one of anger and betrayal and something else. He laughed as soon as he recognized it: despair. He was in _despair_ that Ouma was gone. He should’ve tied him up the first time he had the chance. Locked him up in his basement, like one of those mindless, insignificant people…. No. Someone like Ouma deserved more than the cold basement floor. Momota is going to restrain him on his room, on his bed, where Ouma can sleep soundly at night. Yes… he’s going to treat Ouma so _good_ and so _right,_ he’d never ever want to leave!

Momota practically _giggled_ at the thought _,_ as he leaned his head down miserably on the bathroom sink.

_Come back. I need you._

Was it just him, or was his eyes just a tad bit too wet?

_Come back. I love you._

* * *

When Momota came out of the bathroom, he didn’t so much as pull himself together as he basically stuffed his feelings down into a neat little box and buried it inside his psyche. The despair from Ouma’s absence was easily covered up by irritation and anger— he was seething now, as he always was every morning since Ouma disappeared. When he opened his cupboard and realized breakfast would be toast _again_ (it’s practically the only non-instant food he could prepare on his own), he groaned and nearly broke the hinges as he _slammed_ the cupboard close with a loud thud.

Why does everything have to remind him of Ouma?!

He opened his fridge, took a couple of eggs and decided to try his luck. The eggs broke horribly on his clumsy fingers, bits of shells going down with its contents.

 _“Geez, you’re hopeless. Sit down on the table and_ watch. _”_

The eggs made a nice splatter on the wall when he tossed it in the corner.

The basement door was still banging loudly. _God_ , he forgot to handcuff his prisoner again, didn’t he? Not that it mattered because the door was locked shut. But the sound was still irritating.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

“SHUT UP!” He yelled as he kicked one of the chairs in the dining table, the same chair Ouma sat in. Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck—_ the door kept banging. His prisoner must not have heard him. It was an unfortunate fellow he had caught walking around his neighborhood last night, someone who has yet to see his wrath. Momota’s expression darkened as he took a kitchen knife from the counter, walking over in the direction of the basement—

When he opened the locked basement door he was met with the sight of her. Her eyes were frightened yet defiant, as she glanced down at the knife he was holding on his right hand. Her hair was disheveled, and she looked like shit, but her spirit has yet to be broken. She was still lively, a _brand new toy._ She’s… she’s…

… a girl.

Momota tilted his head as he stared at her coldly, a thought occurring in his head. _Most girls know how to cook, right?_

Her lips quivered as she took a step back. “M-Momota-kun… please. Let me go already! I didn’t even do anything! W-What’s _wrong_ with you?!” her eyes flitted back in the walls of the basement— oh right, those were riddled with bloodstains weren’t they?— and shuddered, tears edging at her eyes. “I… I promise I won’t tell anyone about this, Momota-kun! Just please let me go.” She sobbed.

She keeps saying his name… does he know her? Momota frowned. She’s wearing their uniform, so she must have been a schoolmate. Not that it mattered.

“Can you cook?” he asked out of the blue.

The girl’s eyes widened, and she nodded hesitantly.

“Cook breakfast for me and I’ll consider it. Make it quick, I’m starving.”

Relief spread through the girl’s expression. Momota helped her up the stairs, especially since he sprained her ankle last night. She was limping, but not horribly. Even so, he could see her face grimace every now and then whenever she put pressure on it, which was hilarious. Ouma didn’t even bat an eyelash when he readjusted his dislocated wrist. Ah, Ouma… Ouma, Ouma, Ouma, Ouma, Ouma—

The girl made an uneasy smile as they made their way to the kitchen. “W-What should I cook for you, Momota-kun?”

Momota sat down on the dining table and played with the knife on his fingers, looking bored. “Check the fridge. Anything. And don’t even _think_ about put weird things in my food, I’m watching you. If anything tastes off, _I will skin you._ ”

The girl’s smile faltered. “Y-You’re kidding, right?”

Momota smiled kindly. “You don’t want to find out.”

He could practically see the shudder that ran through her body as she set to work, looking determined. The _tap-tap-tap_ of the knife against the chopping board used to make him feel pleasant, but now it simply made him feel numb. He watched her every move like a hawk, and every once in a while she’d glance back at him, fear brimming in her eyes. Ouma never showed any fear of him, did he? He always looked delighted to have Momota’s eyes on him. And no matter how many times Ouma had admitted his lack of experience in Momota’s craft, Momota never felt that Ouma was in any way inferior to him. For the very first time he had an equal, and to say it was exhilarating was an understatement.

 _It’s not the same._ He realized, as he watched this poor, terrified girl work, her hands shaking as she turned on the stove.

 _It’s not the same._ He affirmed, as the smell of the miso soup filled the kitchen. It smelled nice… but lacking. It’s not that the girl is inferior in her cooking skills, it’s just that she’s not Ouma.

 _It’s not the fucking same._ He decided as he stood up. The soup was boiling; it was nearly done. The girl had let out a sigh of relief as she realized she has done her end of the deal, and she’ll finally be on her merry way to freedom. She leaned over and stirred the soup a bit, as Momota walked behind her. Her eyes lit up a bit when she noticed him.

“M-Momota-kun. It’s done! Wanna have a taste?” she offered meekly. Momota shook his head.

“No. I lost my appetite.” He said as he ran his hand through her hair, almost tenderly. A shiver ran through her body, as she flinched at his touch, and it was then that he gripped a bunch of it with his fist.

Her eyes widened. Fear. “Momota—“

Gurgles. Muffled screams.

Momota stared blankly as he pushed the girl’s face down into the boiling pot, careful to hold her down in a way that his hands won’t be touched by the sizzling soup. She flailed about, but she was weak, and all he needed to do was restrain her by the waist with his free hand. Helpless. Worthless. Someone was laughing. He realized soon enough that it was him. The girl’s hands were clawing at his hands to no avail, and he could smell something cooking… her face must be well-done by now, isn’t it? He snickered. The girl’s movements were getting weaker and weaker… until finally, stillness.

 _That was fun,_ Momota thought.

He made himself some toast, because there wasn’t really anything else he could eat for breakfast is there? He almost regretted ruining the miso soup, but he decided it can’t be helped as he poured the contents down in the sink. He paused for a moment, before deciding that he’d get rid of the pot as well. The thought that human flesh was cooked there was kinda gross. _Eugh._ The girl’s face looked horribly red, blisters forming on her once smooth skin. It was a shame really, Momota thought she was pretty. When he glanced at the clock he was already running late, so he just stashed her body down in the basement, intending to clean it up later.

God, he hoped Ouma would _finally_ go to class today. What he’d do to see Ouma again.

Ouma… Ouma, Ouma, Ouma… _god,_ Ouma…

* * *

He still wasn’t at school. Momota _seethed_.

If there was one thing the he didn’t like, it was stepping on his own pride, admitting defeat and acknowledging that he _needed_ other people in any way, shape or form. He has always fancied himself as a socially appropriate person. Sure, he was horrible in so, _so many_ other ways, but at least he wasn’t a creep. He would _never_ let himself be a creep. Never… _ever_.

Okay, maybe just a little.

Grumbling under his breath, Momota stood in one of the secluded aisles in the neighborhood, lighting himself a cigarette as he watched the house from a distance. One of the passers-by glanced at him and made a face, no doubt finding it distasteful that here he was, after school, smoking while still wearing his school uniform. Not that Momota cared—it’s not like any of these people will report him to the school, and even if they did, nobody would believe them. Everyone in school hailed Momota as a model student. He knew he could get away with a lot of shit. And perhaps the thrill of being caught was also part of the game—if it wasn’t, he would have never done _any_ of the shit he pulls off in a regular basis now.

He remembered the days when he tried. The days when he reined his impulses in with unrelenting force. The days when he pretended there was nothing inherently wrong with him. Those were also the days back when his parents were still alive. It was grueling. It was torture. It was _fucking boring,_ but back then, he didn’t mind.

 _Demon child,_ her voice echoed inside him.

“Tch,” Momota scowled as he pulled his cigar out of his mouth and blew a long line of smoke into the air. Irritation was bubbling in his gut like a pot of boiling miso soup, covering up the abyss of sadness that he would _never_ acknowledge was his.

What was the point of trying to be a good person if the people who mattered wouldn’t believe it? What was the point of fighting against yourself if the people who mattered wouldn’t _care?_

Chaos was in Momota’s blood. All he did was let the monster inside him win.

Out there in the house he was dutifully watching, some activity caught his eye. A middle-aged man walked outside, taking out the garbage. Nothing particularly new there. The man leaned against the wall of his home as he took took of a cigarette, smoking absentmindedly at the porch. Momota was already uninterested—he just wanted to see if he’ll be able to catch a glimpse of the _real_ reason he was standing here, the real reason he was enduring the discomfort of sticking out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood he didn’t belong in. The _real_ reason he was here, riding the risk of him being recognized as a stalker, which at this point, as much as he didn’t want to admit it—he totally _was._

 _“I’ve been his neighbor for years, and I’ve_ never _seen him go out at all—"_

Momota looked up at the window that he assumed must be Ouma’s room. The curtain remained unmoved, as usual. It’s been three weeks since Momota has taken to watching the house Ouma lived in. Three weeks of him hoping to catch even a glimpse of the boy he _wanted._ Three weeks of waiting for nothing, because try as he might, Ouma didn’t seem to have any interest in even peeking outside his home.

_If he was even inside, that is._

_A sick leave,_ his teachers called it, leaving it at that. Ouma was apparently known for missing days and entire _weeks_ of school in his attendance, only ever compensating with his incredible grades. _Bullshit._ Ouma was healthy when he left Momota’s house that morning, he was more energetic, even. He refused to believe that Ouma just suddenly caught a bad cold, enough to keep him off of school for a _month._ But the teachers weren’t very fond of pressing further, as long as Ouma passed, it didn’t really seem like they cared. And it irritated Momota to no end.

_Where are you?!_

There’s the frustration again, building up higher and higher until it licked the back of his throat like a scorching flame. The desire to march into that house, demand where Ouma was, and eradicate any fucker that tried to stop him.

His eyes locked onto the man that was still sitting on the porch, the person he assumed must be Ouma’s stepfather. He looked quite muscular, with a physique that was nothing to sneeze at, but Momota was a _veteran._ If he wanted to, he could walk right there towards his space, take out the pocketknife he had hidden in his pocket, sneak right behind him and _rip that blade on his throat as he demanded that he let him see Kokichi—_

Momota bit his lip so hard he was afraid it would bleed. The sheer force of absolute _want_ almost overcame him for a fragile second. He still wasn’t good at this, he has _never_ been good at this, holding back the rage and violence that run through his veins like blood. Even back when he was young, his impulse control has always been compromised, irreparably broken, and he knew it the moment he used his bare hands to kill that _stupid dog_ that bit his grandma and nearly broke her back—

_“Demon child!”_

The taste of rust exploded in his mouth. _Don’t think about it,_ he told himself, as he all but glared at the house in front of him. The image of dripping red fur still engulfed the forefront of his mind, accompanied by the look of utter horror in his grandmother’s face—

_Don’t—think about it!_

God, he was so irritated. God, he wanted to kill someone _so badly._ Preferably Ouma’s stepfather, who he assumed must have had _something_ to do with Ouma’s continued disappearance. He didn’t know what’s up, or what exactly was happening, nor to what extent—all he knew was that this guy must be connected to the fading bruises that he saw littering Ouma’s arms that night, and he wasn’t stupid enough to believe otherwise.

If only he could be sure that Ouma wouldn’t mind… If only he could be sure that Ouma didn’t actually care about this bastard… then he wouldn’t hesitate to attack him right then and there.

_If only._

But the fear of offending Ouma was enough to keep him frozen in place. The fear of doing something that would make the boy dislike him. The fear of doing something that could fuck up what they had—

_Eyes swirling with fear and horror and disgust—_

Like that girl from earlier. Ah, that’s why. That must be why Momota was so fucking bothered—

_“Get away from me!”_

He’ll never let Ouma’s eyes bear the same emotions, if he could help it. He didn’t want to lose the _one_ person who accepted him as he was, the _one_ person who willingly took care of him. He couldn’t _stand_ the thought of driving him away. And that’s why for now… he’d be patient.

With a begrudging glare, Momota gave Ouma’s stepfather one last evil eye… and started to walk his way back home.

The sound of the phone ringing made him jump. Momota blinked, reaching down his pants to get the call. He was expecting it to have come from one of his friend groups, but to his utter surprise, it… wasn’t. A smile spread on his lips, his face painted with disbelief he answered the call.

“ _Jii-chan!”_ he called out with an affectionate tone, like a child who was just given a piece of candy. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it— a wide grin split is lips, ecstatic. “You called!”

The line on the other side was silent for a long moment, enough for Momota to feel the buzz of his excitement quiet down to a soft hum. Finally, his grandfather asked. “How have you been, Kaito?”

His grandfather, asking if he was alright. The matter of Ouma quickly forgotten, he desperately held onto this small bit of rare concern that he was given. “Ah, I’m fine. I’m all good. What about you _jii-chan?_ Are you and _baa-chan_ doing alright?”

The question was ignored as usual. Momota didn’t even have it in him to feel resentful anymore. “Did you get the money? I sent out your allowance a few days ago.”

“Yes,” Momota replied, as he held onto the phone tightly. “It’s fine, and uhh… Mom and Dad’s insurance money still got me covered, so I really don’t think there’d be a problem…”

“Right, I forgot. You’re really benefiting from their death, aren’t you? I guess nobody can say we’re neglecting you.”

Momota swallowed hard as his blood run cold. _Ignore it, ignore it._ He chanted in his head. Suddenly he was thirteen again, sitting down at the corner of his parents’ funeral, grieving for the death two most important people in his life, enduring his grandparents’ judgmental gazes, knowing they would _never_ take him in—

“Y-Yeah,” he replied, less enthusiastically, this time. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Silence. It stretched on the line for far longer than what was comfortable. Finally, his grandfather replied. “Don’t try to send us anything again.”

Momota’s mood deflated. “I-It was a birthday gift for _baa-chan…_ ”

“And she doesn’t want it. Don’t try to call again, either. You know why.”

 _I didn’t kill my parents,_ Momota didn’t say. He didn’t have _anything_ to do with their car accident. But it didn’t really matter what he or the police said. In their eyes, they knew—there has always been something _horribly wrong_ about their grandson, and they would be damned if they believed he was completely innocent. Which, as hard as it was to believe now—he was. Momota may be horrible, but he hasn’t always been this way. Momota may be horrible, but he never hurt the people he loved, at least not _intentionally._

He licked his lips. “Okay,” he replied. His chest was squeezing itself—it _hurt._ “I—”

The line cut itself without warning. There was a faint _beep._

“I love you…” Momota finished with a whisper, feeling numb as he set the phone down. He was tempted to throw it hard against the sidewalk, crush it underneath his foot like he wanted to do with the emotions swirling in his chest. But phones are expensive, and he wanted to buy that electric drill he found in the hardware store the other day. With a shuddering breath, Momota closed his eyes, trying to focus on something positive, something different.

**_Soft giggles._ **

_Ah…_

**_“Kai-chan, you’re so funny.”_ **

_Kokichi…_

**_“So impatient, Kai-chan!”_ **

_Where are you?_

**_“You’re blushing!”_ **

_I miss you…_

Momota clenched his fists as he looked up at the sky, the same sky they bonded under, the same sky that Ouma thought was pretty, the same sky that Momota loved. The stars were hidden under the lights of the neighboring houses, unfortunately, but he remembered the time that they weren’t. The time when the stars shone bright, just for the two of them.

If he told Ouma he loved him, would he believe it? If he told Ouma he loved him, would he care? Momota didn’t know. Ouma was pretty unpredictable, he simply _couldn’t know._ All he knew was that the attachment was growing, he’s falling too hard, falling too fast—

 _Catch me,_ he pleaded.

The stars didn’t reply.


	7. "Dad?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ankle sprains and burn marks. Ouma lives through his personal hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we get some insight on skau!Ouma's way of thinking. Enjoy! :)
> 
> WARNING: Graphic Depiction of Physical Abuse ahead. Proceed with caution.

Pain.

Ouma was not unfamiliar with pain. It was his old friend, after all. Not one day passes without the spoiled fucker giving him a lengthy visit, but it’s not like pain was always unwelcome. There was _good_ pain, and then there was _bad_ pain. _Good_ pain was when he purposefully cuts himself after too many boring rounds of the knife game, the sting and the burn as his blood flows down his languid fingers. _Good_ pain was when he purposefully lets the bullies get _a little too rough_ with him, when he was pushed down to the ground and stepped upon and all he could do was laugh inside because they could _never_ do anything that will bring him remotely close to tears. Much more recently, _good_ pain was Momota. His very existence. His every touch.

This was _not_ good pain.

Ouma opened his eyes slowly, blinking back the drowsiness from his system as he registered the dull insistent ache echoing throughout his limbs. As usual every time he woke up, his mind immediately started listing down a damage report: _my face feels fine… probably no bruises of black eyes. Good. Arms… heavy…. ugh, I can’t move—_ he twitched his fingers, slowly easing his arms back into feeling again— _functional. Good. Right foot… feels a bit off, but functional. Left foot… ah,_ fuck—

Ouma glanced down. His left foot wasn’t bent at an unnatural angle again, _thank heavens,_ but it was sore. _Oh._ He reached down and massaged the spot, sucking air through his teeth as the pain spiked in his spine, as if a knife was being stabbed through his bones— _please let this be a sprain and not a fracture_. Fractures are a _bitch_ to deal with. At least with a sprain he knew he’d be able to move easily within a few days or so.

 _Looks like I can’t go to class today either._ Ouma sighed heavily. He wanted to be up and moving as soon as possible, truth be told. But as it turns out, _he_ had other plans. The boy had to wonder how long _he_ could possibly be planning to inflict this _punishment_ , this sadistic power play disguised as a disciplinary action. Ouma hoped it would end soon, because he was already losing track of time. It was easy to not feel time passing when he was being beaten black and blue— so goddamn _easy_ to just stare into the distance and hide in the safety of his own head. Hours, days and _weeks_ turn into mere moments when he was indulging himself in escapism. All he knew was that his body hurt all over, his eyes were blurry and he’s _hungry_. _God,_ he’s hungry. His stomach felt as if it was eating itself ten times over. He doubled over and whined softly.

 _If I don’t eat soon, I’ll die,_ he decided. Him with his frail frame and his thin limbs and his scrawny body… if he let himself drift into slumber right now, maybe he’ll never wake up again. A part of him wanted that to happen. He was just… _so tired._ He was already content to just lie there in the cold floor of his messy bedroom, tasting his own blood on his busted lip, reminiscing the moments when it wasn’t his _own_ blood he could taste in his mouth, when it was _that boy’s_ , and when Momota was growling and groaning in lust as he pushed him towards the workbench and _ravaged his whole body—_

A shiver. But it wasn’t from the cold. An ache… but it wasn’t from his mangled body. It was welling from deep inside his black, empty heart, a _longing…_ which was curious and intriguing, because Ouma didn’t know he had the _ability_ to long for something. For _someone._ Ouma Kokichi, who had lived his entire life in his own head, wanting to be part of someone else’s world? _Absurd._ Nonsensical. But it was the truth. It was _fact._

Ouma wanted to see Momota Kaito again. And that’s why… _I can’t die yet._

The boy struggled to stand up despite the growing discomfort of his left foot. _What time is it?_ He glanced over at the clock on his bedside table, and he had to blink a few times to process what’s indicated there.

**7:32 AM.**

Seven… seven in the…. evening? Wait, AM means _ante meridiem,_ so… _of course_ it’s morning. _Silly, silly Kokichi…_ He giggled softly as he made his way through to the door, half-delirious with hunger. When had he last eaten? The last decent meal he had was back at Momota’s, which was a week ago… or a month ago… _huh?_ Lunch. Momota said they’ll eat lunch together… poor packed lunch kicked down on the floor— _bye bye! I knew you’d be wasted._ Momota _really_ should stop wasting food… wait, no, it wasn’t Momota who kicked it, it was _him… Him… Him, him, him… Dad?_

“Dad?” he called out. Nobody answered. _Of course._ He rarely wakes up before ten, especially since he’s usually up until midnight or so drinking and smoking and _beating the shit out of me—_

Ouma shuddered. But it wasn’t from fear, no that’s silly. it couldn’t possibly from fear. _I’m strong, I’m strong, I’m strong, he doesn’t scare me, HE DOESN’T SCARE ME—_

There was a grunt from the living room and Ouma instinctively whimpered. If he wanted food, he had to hurry. He’s _so_ hungry. He just wanted to eat. _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please just let me eat, I’ll be good—_

Ouma practically stumbled down the sorry excuse for stairs and nearly cursed out loud when he landed on his bad foot, but he managed to bite his tongue in time. His tongue bled, it didn’t matter, all that mattered is that he managed not to wake _him_ , as he’s usually sleeping in the couch in the living room not too far from here, and Ouma can make his way down to the kitchen and eat because _oh god my stomach hurts, hurts, hurts—_

He opened the fridge. The first thing he saw was the frozen pizza, unopened in all its glory. He immediately took the entire thing and _scarfed it down_ , like a wolf feasting on carcass, not caring that it was practically uncooked and basically _ice_ in places, just that it was food and it was _good_ and it soothed the growling of his empty stomach. It took him a while to feel _sane_ again, as he drank a glass of water, savoring the liquid flowing down his parched throat. If he was lucky, he’d be able to eat again tomorrow morning. If he was lucky, _he_ won’t notice the pizza was gone. But Ouma was rarely lucky. He wasn’t counting on it.

He leaned on the kitchen counter.

_Pathetic._

The knife was just there. Speaking to him. Enticing him.

_Worthless._

Dazed, Ouma took the knife in his hands and placed it right over his wrist, the cold metal biting his pulse.

_Do it do it do it do it do it—-_

_Down the road, not across the street._

_Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe—_

Ouma let out a shaky breath. _No_. This wasn’t what he wanted. What he _really_ wanted was something else. He pulled the knife away from his wrist, before he did something he knew he might regret. Instead, he adjusted the knife on his fist so that it would resemble a stabbing stance, dragging his left foot towards the living room… staring at him, sprawled on the couch…

 _He’s right there._ _So open. So defenseless…_

**_“Why not do something about it?”_ **

_I’m scared._

**_“God, you sound like a lame ass virgin.”_ **

_I’m so, so scared…_

**_“Red is a good color on you.”_ **

_… is it?_

**_“You’re trembling.”_ **

Ouma stared at the knife in his hand, realizing it was indeed shaking horribly. He swallowed hard as he let it go, not caring for the loud clatter it made as it met the floor, even as his breath hitched from the way _he_ stirred in his sleep. Fear was an automatic response to _his_ presence, Ouma had accepted that long ago. He could play it over and over and over in his head, fantasies of murder so gruesome and pleasurable that it made his skin crawl, but he knew when it came to the _real thing_ , when it came to the _actual moment_ , he was a powerless as a newborn foal. It was the human condition, the normal response to abuse and trauma. Ouma found it morbidly hilarious that he still had this one thing that people could actually consider _normal._

He _despised_ it.

Ouma took a step back… and started to limp his way back up to his room.

Sleep. He wanted to sleep. Preferably forever, but a normal sleep would do. Ouma liked sleeping, as his dreams have always been a reliable method of escape, a world that’s considerably _less boring_ than this hellhole, but recently his dreams have become _even better._ Ouma wondered if it’s because of the appearance of a certain purple-haired madman that he just couldn’t seem to escape from whenever he closed his eyes. Not that he _wanted_ to escape, no—- he wanted to run into his arms, however bloodstained it was, hold him tight and revel in the chaos and the _sin_ and the blood and the screams and the maniacal glint in his eyes, knowing that whatever Momota does with him, he’d be happy. No, he’d be _ecstatic._ Because Momota was _special._ He was something. He’s a blessing that Ouma didn’t think this stagnant society deserved, a blessing that single-handedly redeems this awful, _god-awful_ world. Pleasure and pain meant one and the same if it was coming from him.

Ouma idly wondered if Momota thinks about him this way too. Maybe he does. Or maybe he’s already moved on and found himself a new playmate. Momota _does_ seem to be the kind of person who can easily rifle through people like that. Even so, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was inhabiting Momota’s head too, like Momota was inhabiting his.

He had a feeling that even if Momota forgets about him, he would continue to stay in Ouma’s head for a long, _long_ time…

… not that he’d complain.

When Ouma closed the door of his room, his forehead was already beaded with sweat. He paid it no heed, however, as he brushed the sticky strands of hair away from his eyes, collapsing back into his bed. He buried his face in his pillow and inhaled softly. His room smelled like cigarettes... it made him giddy. It didn’t smell like that before. In fact, he _hated_ that smell before. But strangely enough… he had slowly grown quite attached to it. The scent clung to his sheets, his shirt, permeating the air around him... he could still taste the tobacco in his mouth, the nicotine buzzing in his system from smoking pack after pack of stolen cigarettes last night. When his stepdad notices, will he punish him for it too? It didn’t matter. It was worth it, so _fucking worth it,_ because the high of the nicotine in his lungs was nowhere near the high of the thought that followed after.

_Smells like Kai-chan._

Humming softly, he let his fingers drag down his neck, to the hollow of his throat, where the bruise of the bite mark sat, the one Momota made in the basement. He didn’t know how long it has been, but it should’ve already faded, like the rest of the bruises Momota had inflicted upon him. But Ouma didn’t want it to leave him yet. No, he couldn’t _bear_ for it to leave him yet. And so… as he had always done every morning since he had left Momota’s residence, he _dug_ his finger into the bruise, pressing slow firm circles against the discolored skin, relishing in the shudders it sent through his spine as the sensation echoed throughout his body.

“A-Ah…” he could practically feel his eyes roll to the back of his head, as his lips let out a soft whine. _God,_ Momota… Momota, Momota—

The bruise stung _horribly._ Ouma giggled.

 _This is good_ _pain._

His left foot throbbed. He bit his lip… and sobbed.

 _This isn’t_.

* * *

Either his left foot was sprained, or Ouma had somehow magically developed super-regenerative abilities. Because within just a few… days(?), Ouma was able to put his own weight on it again. It wasn’t healed, it still _hurt,_ but it got better. And the moment Ouma woke up and realized his damage report was considerably shorter than usual, he felt a certain excitement overcome him, as he eagerly ran to the bathroom to take a bath (his first one in weeks, if the considerable lack of bubbles in his lather was to be believed). He had never been excited about going to school before, but things were different now. _Kai-chan would be there._ He smiled, elated, as he rushed down the stairs. _I can see Kai-chan again!_ He giggled as he opened the fridge, almost _humming_ under his breath as he took an apple—

“Kokichi.” A cold voice muttered behind him.

Ouma felt like the wind was suddenly knocked out of him. He let out a small gasp and instinctively dropped the apple down on the floor. As soon as he did, he felt a wave of disappointment flash upon him, at the thought that he just might _not_ end up getting what meager breakfast he was looking forward to eating this morning. His skin prickled, as vicious terror settled in his gut, making him feel sick. He didn’t dare look behind him, no, he kept his eyes trained on the floor, as any sudden movements can easily be interpreted as an act of defiance, dooming him into a world of unwelcomed discomfort. Ouma Kokichi doesn’t remember the last time he had met his stepfather’s eyes. He couldn’t even really recall what color they were.

Silence. Is it safe to speak yet? Kokichi hesitated, hating the way he stuttered over the words. “C-Can’t I? Take the apple, I mean. Your punishment is done. Y-You… you didn’t hit me… last night.”

A hum. Ouma’s heart pounded. Finally, his stepfather replied. “You’re right. Pick it up.”

Relief. Ouma nodded, kneeling down to pick up the apple obediently—

— and suddenly there was a foot on his back, and he was being kicked down on the floor, and something hot and _searing_ was being pushed against his shoulder, burning through his uniform, like a brand, as if he was _cattle—_ Ouma _screamed_ as he writhed against it to no avail, merely succeeding to push the cigarette butt further into his skin—

“I’m sorry! I’m _so_ sorry! What—“ _the fuck_ “—did I do, now?!” he yelled, moisture forming in the edge of his eyes, gasping from the onslaught of the _bad, bad pain._ His body shook as the butt was lifted, only to be pushed at a different spot on his back— _more pain. Hurts, hurts, hurts—_

“My cigarette stash is missing. You didn’t happen to know where it went, did you, _Kokichi_?”

His name sounded like poison when it came from his tongue. Ouma hated it.

“I don’t know! I don’t smoke!” he lied. Another flash of white hot pain as the cigarette was pushed on another spot on his skin _._ Ouma keeled over as he arched his back in desperation. _Worth it._ He thrashed, sobbing as the foot was pressed harder against his shoulder blades. _So fucking worth it._ He clenched his fists as he stared at his reflection in the floor tiles, the surface cold against his cheek. The expression on his face was of a victim, a poor abused boy. _Pathetic_. Ouma hated it. Because he wasn’t pathetic. He’s _strong_. He could take anything. This was _nothing._

Ouma went under.

If he had to describe it, it was like suddenly being underwater. He could still feel the pain, but it was dulled somehow. Not that the pain _magically_ lessened, it’s just that he didn’t care about it anymore. His stepfather was still talking above him, but he didn’t give a shit. His body relaxed as his demeanor went from instinctively rejecting the pain to outright _embracing_ it. It was still _bad_ pain, because anything _he_ would inflict upon him can only be _bad_ pain, but this way he… didn’t exactly hate it anymore. He didn’t care. He _couldn’t_ care. Soon enough he realized he wasn’t screaming anymore. He was simply staring into the distance, up in the ceiling as he was turned over, counting the cracks in the paint that was peeling in places— _Kai-chan’s ceiling looks better._ He thought. _Kai-chan… Kai-chan…_ If he closed his eyes maybe he could pretend—

A kick on his stomach made him double over in pain. A hand grasping a clump of his hair, followed by a loud _smack_ as his head was forcefully slammed against the floor—  

His damage report was getting longer again. _Oh no._ He wanted to go to school today. If he doesn’t escape from this hellhole somehow, he wasn’t sure if he could still keep himself sane. It’s been so long, so long, so _goddamn long—_

“W-Wait…” he croaked, trying to think past the ringing in his head. He could feel something hot and sticky flow down his temple to the side of his neck. _That can’t be good._ His uniform was already stained and burnt in places, does he have a spare? He was pretty sure he does, but if he didn’t, he’d have to make do by wearing a jacket or a sweater or _something—_

 _It’s nearly winter anyways._ He reasoned. _Or was it winter already?_ He wasn’t sure. His stepfather was waiting expectantly, why was he waiting expectantly? Ah, yes. Ouma told him to wait. Uhh… _huh?_ What was he going to say again? His head was ringing so much it was irritating. He wanted to tear his own head apart and take _it_ out, whatever it is, whatever that was ringing. _Take it out, take it out, TAKE IT OUT—_

 _Focus._ Ouma took a deep breath. _Focus._ Ah, right. This was easy. Ouma just had to _lie._ And lie convincingly, he could.

“M-My teachers will be looking for me soon.” He stuttered. No they won’t, not really, none of them gave a shit as long as he was passing his exams, but his stepfather didn’t have to know that. “I-I think… I think I’ve been gone… t-too long. Can I…” he breathed. He felt like blacking out. But he couldn’t. He _mustn’t._ He needed to get out today. Please, please please— “Can I… go to school… t-today? Please?”

His stepfather contemplated it. But even before he responded, Ouma knew what his answer would be. He _hated_ Ouma drawing attention to himself. He _hated_ Ouma giving anyone _any_ reason to suspect that he was being mistreated at home. It was partly the reason that the boy simply refused to socialize, because sometimes seeing that he was befriending others were enough to get a well-placed knee in the gut. And then Ouma would be forced to throw up whatever meager meal he had eaten earlier in the day. And then Ouma would be hungry, and then Ouma would be _miserable._

“Fine. Clean up and go.”

Ouma resisted the urge to let out a huge sigh of relief. Resisted the urge to grin. Resisted the urge to show any signs of excitement. He simply nodded as his stepfather let him go, limply walking back up to his room so he could wash the blood out of his hair and change into fresh clothes…

When he came back down he spied the apple still lying down on the kitchen floor. His stepfather was sitting down on the living room, watching reruns of Danganronpa.

His hands were shaking when he picked it back up and slid it inside his book bag. _Breakfast._ Ouma stifled a smile as he ran out of the house.

_Small victories._


	8. “Like, 'I’ll tear out your organs' mad, or just 'I’ll strangle you' mad?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iron rust and cigarettes. Kokichi reclaims his personal heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack! This feels like coming back to your wife after the war- here I write again! :DD Thanks for all the kudos and comments and everything! Let's continue. 
> 
> Dedicated to @TheWallnutGallery and @BloodyPanic! Your comments and reactions make my day. I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's my personal favorite.

By glancing at a magazines and newspapers in a convenience store window on the way to school, Ouma was able to deduce that he’s been gone from school for exactly 35 days, a little over a month, which was… surprising. It really has been a month? Time has flown him by, but it’s not like that was anything special. Still, this has been the longest punishment he’s had in the last three years. Usually a week or two would suffice. Ouma hated to admit it, but the packed lunch Momota insisted he bring with him probably didn’t help matters… his stepdad hated him having anything resembling friends or social contact. If he could, he probably wouldn’t let him go to school either. But then again, people would get suspicious. It’s far easier for his stepfather to claim that he was simply a ‘weird kid who skips classes a lot’.  

What was his deal, anyway? Ouma wasn’t sure. The abuse had started even before his mother died, even before he really had a mind of his own. It didn’t matter, really, what his stepfather’s issues were. All Ouma knew was that he was a sadistic bastard, that all he had ever done was _hurt_ him, and that Ouma would do _anything_ for him to die by his hands.

Someday… someday he’d have the guts to do it. Someday.

_Maybe._

He had to stop for a moment as his vision swam with dark spots, a dizziness ringing inside his head, making him stagger. He suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to double over and vomit—but he held his stomach, keeping it in. It wouldn’t do to expel the meager apple he’d earlier consumed. He swallowed down the bile in his throat along with his saliva, trying to catch his breath. Every step hurt his still slightly swollen ankle, but as soon as the school buildings were in sight he let out a relieved sigh, knowing that as soon as he got there, everything would be _worth it._ It didn’t matter that his head was ringing. It didn’t matter that his stomach was still growling. It didn’t matter that he had a cut in his scalp near his temple, didn’t matter that his clothes felt rough against the burns on his back, stinging _like a bitch—_

_I wonder if Kai-chan missed me._

Probably not. Momota seemed like someone who wouldn't care after all. Who knows, maybe Momota forgot him already.

 _I_ hope _Kai-chan missed me._

There. The truth _._ Ouma wanted to matter to somebody _._ And if that somebody was Momota…

...that would be heaven, wouldn’t it?

“Kai-chan...” he whispered like a chant even as his vision blurred, an encouragement to keep himself going. “Kai—” A hand suddenly grabbed at him from behind, clasping against his mouth, and all Ouma was able to do was squeal and protest weakly as he was suddenly pulled into an alley, manhandled like a doll and pushed against the wall, magenta eyes looking straight at him with fury and _worry_ and crazed madness.

Ouma had just enough time to gasp before he felt strong calloused fingers _squeeze_ against his windpipe, an imminent threat, but he realized he was smiling— _laughing_ even— in utter delight as he lifted his hands and touched _him,_ grasped at his shirt, inhaled his scent and giggled, giggled, _giggled_ because Momota was here, Momota was _right here_ , and it didn’t matter if he was staring at him with such terrifying anger in his eyes, no. It didn’t matter that he was squeezing at his throat with enough force to probably break his neck _._ If Momota killed him, he wouldn’t really even mind. If Momota cut him up and crawled inside him, he wouldn’t really even _care_.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!” Momota _snarled._ He looked angry, so angry... because of Ouma? Because Ouma was gone? _Seriously? Really?!_ Ouma giggled even more _,_  elated, as he tapped at the hand that was squeezing his throat and pinning him in place.

“C-Can’t... speak...” he croaked.

Momota let go.

Ouma fell down on the ground with a loud _thud,_ wincing as his ankle landed in an uncomfortable position. He instinctively gasped for air, oxygen flooding his system, and then he started laughing _hard,_ clutching at his stomach as he leaned against the wall, looking up at Momota with pure unadulterated _glee_ in his eyes. He grinned _._ “Kai-chan! I missed you _sooo_ much!”

Momota scowled as he crouched in front of him, his expression deadly and incredibly dangerous. “Where have you been, Kokichi?” he repeated. There was an edge on his tone, a warning. _Answer me or you’ll get it._ Ouma didn’t know what ‘it’ was, but maybe he wanted ‘it’. After everything he’s been through in the past month, playing with Momota in any shape or form would be a _blessing._

Ouma swallowed as he closed his eyes, feeling a little dizzy. “Hmm... where have I been, huh... wouldn’t you like to know—”

Momota held his ankle and squeezed _hard._ Pain blossomed and spiked up Ouma’s spine, and he cried out, wincing.

“I saw you limping. What the fuck happened to this?” Momota demanded. Was that Ouma’s imagination, or did he sound almost _concerned?_ No, he can’t be. That’s just not possible.

“I-I.... I think it’s sprained...” Ouma frowned as he tried to think through the cloud of pain and hunger in his head. He took a deep breath as he tried to steady himself. “B-But it’s fine. I can walk—”

“You still didn’t answer my question.” Momota growled. He was acting more _animalistic_ when he’s angry—Ouma thought it was adorable.

“What was your question again...?”

Momota _slammed_ his hand at the wall beside his head and leaned in with a threat. When he replied, his voice was stiff and low, as if he was resisting the urge to scream at Ouma’s face. Ouma appreciated it, loud noises were only going to make him feel more nauseated... “I asked you. Where. Have. You. Been.”

 _Where have I been?_ Ouma started giggling again.

“Ouma Kokichi!” Momota warned.

“I wasn’t anywhere, Kai-chan!” he replied, gleefully. “I was just at home, you dummy.”

Momota’s expression faltered for a second, and when he frowned it was more confused than angry. “ _What?!”_

Ouma covered his ears. _Too loud, too loud..._ Something sticky was dripping down the side of his face. _Huh?_ Maybe the cut near his temple opened up again. _Gross._ He tried to look for something, _anything_ that he could use to wipe it, and decided to make do with the sleeve of his shirt. Momota’s eyes darkened as he watched him, eyeing the patch of red the blood left on his shirt. Would it be weird to come to school with a bloody uniform? Yes... yes, it would. But Ouma didn’t really think he needed to go to school today anymore. Momota was already here, and nothing else mattered.

_Nothing else mattered, nothing else mattered..._

Ouma clung to Momota’s shirt and inhaled his scent. What kind of freak feels safety at the hands of a shameless murderer? Apparently him. Because at that very moment, there was no other place in the world he’d rather be than right here. He was starting to feel comfortable, maybe a little _too_ uncomfortable, as Momota lifted his hand and pulled some of his hair away from his face, trying to examine the wound that was bleeding.

“You’re a mess.” Momota grunted, distastefully.

Ouma hummed and nodded, closing his eyes. Momota fell silent. Or maybe he was saying something, and Ouma simply couldn’t hear him anymore. His vision was already fading, and he was slowly losing his consciousness, drifting into the darkness that swallowed him.

Ouma suddenly felt weightless, and when he opened his eyes just a bit, he thought he saw Momota looking determined as he carried him out of the alley. He snuggled close against his chest, sighing contentedly.

Ouma didn’t dream, but he had to admit it was still the most pleasant sleep he’d had in a long, long time.

* * *

When Ouma opened his eyes, he felt calmer. Less erratic, more in control. Maybe it was from the fact that his entire body wasn’t swimming in pain anymore. Pain always had a way of making him a little off in the head, he had to admit. Or maybe it was because he was situated in a familiar bed, in a familiar bedroom— a bedroom that only brought good memories to him, making him feel safe and... happy. Momota’s bedroom was much bigger than his, and quite spacious too— there were a lot of stuff here that caught Ouma’s attention. Like the plastic glow in the dark stars that was plastered on one side of the ceiling (was it there before? He wasn’t sure) and the small telescope that used to be in the backyard now tucked into a corner, beside the window. Momota has a thing for space, he knew, remembering the NASA T-shirt he wore the last time he was here. The shirt that didn’t really stay too long on him... considering all the fucking they did. The thought made him giggle.

Momota opened the door of his room with a stoic expression, holding a bag of food that he threw unceremoniously on Ouma’s lap. Ouma took it and peeked inside, a lot of the items were those convenient store sandwiches, some grape soda he had never drank before and a couple bags of chips. Momota pulled the chair from his study table and sat beside the bed, pulling open a pack of chips and grunting. “Lunch.”

Ouma watched him carefully as he unwrapped a sandwich and brought it to his lips. The tell-tale sound of chain links clinking brought him back to the reality of his situation, and while any person would probably feel threatened and creeped out about being _literally chained to the bed_ , Ouma was simply amused that Momota spared the effort to carry him halfway across town to get him here.

“Kai-chan... don’t tell me you’re still bitter about that lunch date I ditched,” he teased.

Momota gave him a glare. “Shut up and eat. You’re _way_ lighter than you were a month ago, and I am not about to let you waste away.”

Ouma wasn’t about to refuse that. He leaned down and took a bite of his sandwich, chewing happily. His head was a tad bit heavy for some reason, but he supposed that was because of the bandage that was now wrapped around his head. A weird stretchy fabric was embracing his swollen ankle, and the burns on his back felt cool against the thin Momota-sized shirt he was wearing. Momota had obviously taken care of him while he was asleep, and it was awfully _sweet—_ he glanced down at the chain that linked his right hand to the headrest. Well, _almost_ sweet, if Momota didn’t do that. It wasn’t like he was going to bolt away, chaining him up was just overkill.

He set down his sandwich and sighed dejectedly. “Kai-chan, I don’t like being chained.”

Momota’s response was immediate, unbending. “Too bad.”

Ouma frowned. “Did I really piss you off _that_ much?”

Momota stared at him with an unreadable expression. “Yes.”

“Like, ' _I’ll tear out your organs'_ mad, or just ' _I’ll strangle you'_ mad?” Ouma pressed teasingly. “I’m slightly concerned.”

Momota let out a low growl in his throat. “I already strangled you.”

“Yeah...” Ouma murmured dreamily. “Do it again.”

Momota sighed heavily as he pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. Ouma giggled.

“How long are you planning to keep me here?”

“Forever.”

Ouma gasped indignantly. “Kai-chan!”

“Don’t ‘Kai-chan’ me!” Momota yelled, irritated. “You _knew_ this was going to happen. You _knew_ you were going to miss lunch that day, you _knew_ you were going to be gone for a long while— you could have _fucking_ told me, okay?!” He ran his hand across his face, before messing his hair with it, aggravated. “And then you come back, and you look like someone tossed you around and hit you with a goddamned truck, have you _seen_ yourself?!” Momota snarled as he held Ouma’s shirt by the hem, showing off his thin chest riddled with green and purple bruises.

 _I try not to._ Ouma thought, staring straight ahead, knowing the amount of times he let himself be kicked and punched around by that asshole would only make himself feel more pathetic. Momota’s eyes darkened. He looked gorgeous like that, angry and livid and terribly frustrated.

“Who did this, Kokichi?” he demanded, tone low and dangerous. It sent chills down Ouma’s spine. “Who— _the fuck—_ did this?”

Ouma’s lips twitched as he tilted his head, meeting his eyes, teasing. “Wouldn’t you like to know—”

“ _Yes,”_ Momota insisted, as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyes determined. “I would _very much_ like to know.”

Ouma’s felt the expression drain from his face as he lifted the sandwich and pressed it to his lips, taking out a miniscule bite. The flavors of bread and eggs and ham and mayonnaise filled his tongue, and he swallowed it slowly, taking his time, as he considered the situation before him. What should he say, anyway? If Momota cared about him _this_ much, enough to want to chain him to the bed... then he should definitely _not_ tell him the truth. _Anything_ but the truth. He shrugged as he nibbled on his sandwich. Every lie he could think off was flimsy at best. Even so, he tried. “I did it to myself.”

Momota’s eyes twitched. _Uh-oh._ He looked furious, terribly furious. Ouma wanted to smooth those creases in his forehead with his fingertips, seal them in with a kiss. Momota always looked so relaxed and in control, at least the last few times he had seen him, and this person in front of him almost felt like a stranger. The taller boy leaned in and whispered. “If you’re that much of a slut for pain, I could give it to you, and give it to you _good,_ ” he seethed. “But don’t talk bullshit to me, Kokichi. Just _don’t talk bullshit to me._ ”

Ouma met his gaze, determined. “I’m not—"

Momota suddenly held him by the shoulder. The spike of pain was intense, and he couldn’t help but hiss as the taller boy’s grip met the burn close to his back, writhing in agony as Momota stared at him with a smoldering gaze.

“No wonder a dislocated wrist doesn’t bother you,” he whispered angrily. “If _this_ is the kind of shit you’re used to.”

Ouma closed his eyes and shuddered, letting out a shaky breath—

“How do you suggest you did this to yourself, Kokichi? The burns in your back. The _scars_ in your back. There’s a _foot-sized_ fucking bruise on your shoulder-blades. I’ve seen these shit for _years._ I _make_ them. You can’t fool me,” he hissed, eyes darkening further. “It’s your old man, isn’t it?”

Ouma shook his head, vigorously. It only seemed to spur Momota further.

“Stop fucking protecting him! _Why_ are you protecting him?!” Momota demanded, frustrated. “You were basically a fucking inch from death! Or do you actually _like_ it, huh, you little freak—"

That was a low blow, and Ouma couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t— the flash of pure white-hot indignation as he _glared_ at Momota. Him? Liking that _bastard’s_ shit? _Worst insult_ he could receive. He shook violently, but it wasn’t from pain anymore. He was shaking in raw anger.

“He’ll pay for this.” Momota was saying, eyes crazed and murderous. “ _I’ll kill him._ ”

Something in Ouma _broke._

“NO!” the boy nearly _lunged_ at Momota, and if it wasn’t for the chains on his wrists pulling him back he would have _actually_ taken his neck in a vice grip, squeezing it mercilessly. He was breathing raggedly, like a wild animal, eyes burning with fury. “Don’t you _dare_ touch him. DON’T YOU _DARE_ FUCKING TOUCH HIM! IF YOU DO, _KAITO,_ I SWEAR TO HELL AND BACK, I WILL _KILL YOU_ —”

Something akin to genuine surprise flashed in Momota’s face, almost impressed. He raised a hand and grasped Ouma by the hair, pinning him to bed— Ouma thrashed, cuffs straining against his wrists, trying to _fucking bite_ that hand off of him— “Look at you!” Momota  _laughed,_ madness leaking in his eyes. “Look at you, Kokichi! Making threats now? To _me?_ You’re so _adorable!”_ The last world came out snarled, as if he meant to _arrogant_ instead, as he grasped Ouma by the neck, making the smaller boy gasp, but that didn’t stop Ouma from _glaring_ at him with contempt, angry and furious and _fucking livid_. “Look at you...” Momota continued in a whisper, more fascinated than angry now, as he stroked a finger against Ouma’s cheek. “Look at you...”

“Don’t touch him, Kaito.” Ouma was saying, wheezing as he struggled against his grip, practically hyperventilating. “Don’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t you _fucking_ touch him—“

Momota’s expression went blank as he stared at him, eerily. “Why?” his tone was of a curious child. He tilted his head. “Why shouldn’t I smash his fucking head in? Gut him by the stomach, choke him by the neck... He deserved it. Look what he did to you, Kokichi.”

Ouma was still shaking as he gripped Momota by the shirt, staring desperately into his eyes. “Because he’s _mine,_ ” he seethed, letting out a shuddering breath. God, it felt good to say it. God, it felt good to _scream it—_ “HE’S _MINE_! NOBODY TOUCHES HIM! IF HE DOESN’T DIE BY MY HANDS THEN NONE OF MY PAIN MATTERED! YOU _DON’T_ GET TO TAKE THAT CHANCE FROM ME, KAITO!” As soon as he said that he realized he was sobbing, clutching at his chest, big fat tears running down his cheeks, and it’s been _so long_ since he let go like this, _so long_ since he last cried. He must have looked pathetic, breaking down like this, but it felt so good, so goddamn good— “He’s mine...” he choked out. “He’s m-mine...”

Momota was staring at him with an unreadable expression. Finally, his eyes widened, lighting up, and when he leaned in again, he looked oddly excited.

“I get it,” he whispered, and then laughed in relief(?) as he reached over and ruffled his hair, grinning. “I get it now, Kokichi! You should’ve just told me! You’re so silly. So cute. _Too_ cute.”

The emotional whiplash was overwhelming. Ouma felt dizzy. Momota was still talking, perking up, looking delighted. He was nodding approvingly, as if Ouma just solved him a really hard math problem. “I see, I should’ve known.” He gave him a knowing look. “He’s the first kill you wanted, isn’t he?”

Ouma tensed. He knew where this was going, and the thought was enough to send his stomach into knots. He didn’t know if it was from excitement, terror, or something else. Regardless he nodded, and Momota looked satisfied.

“You can have him. _Of course_ you can have him. You deserve _everything,_ ” Momota said seriously, as if this was common sense. He stood up and started pacing, planning. “First we need to restrain him. I’d need a rope, maybe some sleeping pills but, hah, who really cares about that. We can just knock him out with a hit in the head!” Momota laughed, before looking back at Ouma. “What do you think?”

Ouma’s head was spinning. He hesitated. “I-I...”

“Do you want it quick or drawn out? Actually, that’s a stupid question. _Of course,_ you’d want to torture the shit out of him. This is a revenge plot. He deserves nothing less,” Momota continued, tone low and irritated.

Ouma felt sick. “W-Wait...”

“If that’s the case we should kidnap him and bring him here! How does one kidnap a grown man out of a busy neighborhood? I’ve never really done it before.”

Ouma covered his ears. “S-Stop!” he yelled, catching Momota’s attention. Momota looked back at him, surprised. Ouma shook his head vigorously. Fear was creeping in his senses at the thought of facing him, defying him, merely _being in his presence..._  he felt _weak._ Pathetic. Momota would laugh. Momota would see how much of a coward he really was. Maybe if he knew, if he knew—then, he wouldn’t find him half as interesting anymore. He bit his lip, voice quivering. “S-Stop. I... I can’t do it.”

To his wonder, Momota only looked confused. “But... you just said you wanted to,” he replied, pointing out the obvious.

Ouma shook his head once again as he curled into a ball, rocking a bit, as if to soothe himself. “I-I can’t...”

Momota was silent for a moment, before he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at him as if he was a cryptid. He hesitated. “But... you said you _wanted to,_ ” he repeated, as if this information was all that mattered. Ouma supposed to him that was _exactly right_ — Momota didn’t care about anything. He only cared about what felt good to him, what he wanted, what he desired. He lived by his own rules; other people didn’t get to have a say in it. But Ouma... Ouma wasn’t quite like that. He wasn’t... like that.

He sobbed, hands trembling. “I’m scared.” As soon as he said it, he felt the wall he’d put up for years break completely. “I’m so scared, Kai-chan...”

Momota’s frowned, looking genuinely baffled, but his eyes softened a bit. He reached a hand out and caressed Ouma’s hair, carefully, sweetly, _soothingly_ , and Ouma felt himself lean towards his touch, starved for this kind of contact. Momota hummed for a moment, before he finally relented.

“Fine,” he replied. “Without your okay, I’m not going to do anything. But do you remember what I said when you first came in here, in my house?” he asked, a faint grin on his lips, eyes sparkling.

Ouma frowned. That was such a long time ago, so he shook his head. Momota moved his bangs away from his face and kissed his forehead tenderly.

“I said I’d convince you not to be a _virgin_ anymore,” he said, amused. Ouma blinked, realizing he was right. Momota _did_ say something like that. The thought almost made him smile, if he wasn’t so emotionally drained. Momota seemed to notice and he shrugged as he took the sandwiches that’s been spilled down on the floor, putting the unopened ones back on Ouma’s lap. “Eat. And then get some sleep. You’re safe here, in my place.”

 _Safe..._ Ouma stared at the sandwiches, blankly. He vaguely heard the sound of chains clinking, and the next thing he knew his hands had been freed, and he looked up at Momota, surprised.

“You’re... letting me go?”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Momota snarled, as he took the chain link and placed it on his bedside. “You’re _really_ not in the state to move around too much right now. But if you don’t wanna be chained, then I—” he paused, before staring incredulously at the chain links, as if he was only realizing _now_ what he had done. He looked like he was waging an internal war with himself, between putting it back and letting it be, before he swallowed hard, looking back at Ouma desperately. Ouma felt the breath hitch in his throat at the utter look of _despair_ in Momota’s face, as he whispered.

“Just... don’t leave me.” It sounded less like a demand and more like a plea.

Ouma’s lips quivered, as he pulled the covers close to his chest. Momota’s eyes dropped to his face and down to his collarbone, where Ouma _knew_ the hickey Momota left weeks ago was still visible above the neckline.

“My bite is still there.” he murmured. Ouma felt a bit of pride blossom in his chest as he nodded, smiling bashfully.

“I took care of it,” he admitted. “I missed you.”

A strange expression passed Momota’s face, something Ouma couldn’t quite understand _._ But he leaned in and inspected it, lifting Ouma’s chin to give him some space as he placed a kiss on the tender skin. “Well, let it heal already, you don’t want it infected.” His tone was scolding. “I’m here, _you’re_ here. I can make you many more.”

Ouma felt his lips twitch as he nodded, giddy. Momota looked up at him with that same strange expression, something that almost looked like... affection—

“I—” Momota cut off sharply, frowning. There was a hesitation in his eyes, a hesitation that was rarely ever there _._ He slowly pulled back, conflicted.

Ouma tilted his head. “Kai-chan...?”

“Never mind,” Momota said, scratching the back of his neck. “Never mind, just... rest. I have stuff I need to do downstairs, so...”

Ouma nodded as he unwrapped a new sandwich. Momota headed for the door, but just before he closed it, he gave him a look. “You _better_ still be here when I get back.”

Ouma pointed at his ankle, which seemed to have gotten worse since Momota squeezed it. “Not going anywhere,” he assured him.

Momota nodded in satisfaction, before he closed the door. Silence reigned as Ouma tried to relax, now feeling safe and nice and happy. His stepfather didn’t know he was here; his stepfather didn’t know where he went. Ouma dreaded the time when he had to go back and possibly get punished again, but maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe he should’ve ran away a long time ago.

 _Kai-chan is so good to me,_ he thought giddily, as he glanced down at the bruise on his collarbone, touching it lightly, remembering the taller boy’s promise, that he’d make him many more. _I’m not boring Kai-chan yet!_ It was a marvel to behold, the fact that after everything, Momota was still willing to put up with him, take care of him... comfort him. Momota understood him, he’s literally the _only_ person who ever tried, and he didn’t push him to do anything he didn’t want to either. Ouma stared at his wrists, now free from the cuff and the chain links, giggling softly to himself. Momota let him go simply because he said didn’t want to be chained. It was literally the only reason! He felt like breaking into tears again. _My preferences mattered, my opinions mattered,_ I _mattered, for once!_

It was heaven for him, really. It blew his mind. If this was how things will always be with Momota, then he didn’t want to ever let him go. Was that possible? Could he make Momota _his?_ _Please?_ He sighed dreamily against the covers of the bed, inhaling Momota’s scent— iron rust and cigarettes— the scent he’s addicted himself to the past month.

 _Let him be mine,_ he thought wistfully. _Please,_ _I just want him to be mine._


	9. "You murdered Monokuma."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catching up. Talking. Lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random updating on a totally random day? More likely than you think. 
> 
> Idk guys, I just wanna do it today.

_ I love you. _

Momota frowned as he scratched the back of his head, contemplating the words he almost let slip. He wasn’t really subtle about the nature of his affection, he’d called Ouma ‘love’ a couple times before, and he had to admit it was a little disappointing that the guy didn’t seem to think much about it. Even so, the thought of laying it all out there just made him the tiniest bit of uncomfortable, unsure about how Ouma would react. Those three words, as far as he could tell, were a big deal to some people, what if it was a big deal to Ouma too?

He really didn’t think it was appropriate to give Ouma any more emotional turmoil today. The boy already looked like he walked through hell and back and... in Momota’s experience, getting thrown feelings at by the person he was undoubtedly in a fuck buddy situation with was always less than pleasant. Momota was rarely ever this considerate, honestly, but he had to admit he kinda liked the relationship they had right now. For it to be ruined by something as cliché as  _ feelings  _ made him sick in the stomach. No— Ouma didn’t need to know just how deep his affections ran. Ouma didn’t need to know that Momota spent the entirety of last month thinking and waiting and  _ pleading  _ for him to come back. Ouma didn’t need to know that Momota fell, and fell  _ hard,  _ and that even now, he still couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

_ (Because he’s back, he’s here now, and I’ll never _ ever _ let him go—) _

Momota always thought he was incapable of love.

Hell, Momota wasn’t really even sure if this was  _ really  _ love.

People make love sound so sweet! And soft! And  _ gentle.  _ But no, Momota didn’t do gentle. His feelings for Ouma were primal, almost destructive. He wanted to kiss him and take him and  _ tear  _ him apart, every last bone and muscle and sinew, every last shred of bruised up bloodied skin— then fix him up, gather the pieces,  _ put him back together _ , so he could break him again for another day. Momota was aware this wasn’t normal, but when was he  _ ever  _ normal, really?

One day, he’d love it if Ouma broke  _ him _ instead—

The thought sent a delicious shiver down his spine, remembering the look in Ouma’s face earlier, the beast prowling underneath the surface.  _ Don’t you  _ dare  _ fucking touch him! _ God, he looked so uninhibited. So furious. So  _ gorgeous.  _ And as much as Momota wanted to disregard his  _ demand  _ and kill his excuse of a stepdad himself, Momota was just... transfixed. Mesmerized. Almost jealous, really, because it was the deadbeat who got to unearth that reaction from  _ his Kokichi. _

_ What a lucky bastard. _

As Momota walked down the stairs, he pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, picked up the lighter laying on the counter in the kitchen, and lit himself a smoke. He really needed it to calm his nerves from all the emotions swirling inside him: anger and relief and fondness and irritation and nothing and  _ everything  _ he ever fucking wanted. He took a long drag and blew it in the air, trying to control himself, trying not to think of the fact that somewhere out there, that  _ fucker  _ was probably still safe and sound and that’s  _ so fucking unfair—  _ because the only thing keeping him from certain death was the  _ fear  _ he had instilled into Ouma from beating him up over and over for  _ god knows how long. _

_ God, I  _ really  _ want to kill him. _

But he promised he wouldn’t. Not without Ouma’s permission. Momota was a prick, and Momota was a fucking  _ monster,  _ but if there was something he wanted Ouma to know, it’s that he  _ respected  _ him. He always had— ever since he jumped fearlessly from that school rooftop, ever since he laughed in the basement, ever since he encouraged that boy to rip the knife through his own neck. Momota respected him, and that was why he’d try his best to be good, and leave the  _ temptingly tasty  _ prey in the clutches of its rightful hunter.

Honor among murderers, and all.

Sighing in frustration, he tossed the half-done cigar into a nearby ashtray. His phone rang once or twice: messages from his ‘friends’ asking why he was skipping school today. He didn’t care enough to answer. After all, he had bigger problems, bigger tasks to care of today.

Which may or may not involve the half-peeled potatoes currently sitting on his kitchen counter.

He tried not to think about how well Ouma had him wrapped around his finger. Enough for him to put off cleaning  _ another  _ corpse in the basement in favor of actually trying to cook dinner— a dinner that he was  _ determined  _ to make healthy, because Ouma wouldn’t heal well if he kept eating convenient store sandwiches for the rest of the foreseeable future. Momota  _ probably  _ should’ve sent him to the school clinic or a hospital, really, but that would mean he would have to deal with doctors and/or nurses telling him to leave. That was one selfish decision Momota let himself make today.

He  _ glared  _ at his phone as he read an article about how effectively use a paring knife. He supposed peeling potato skin wasn’t much different from peeling human skin, though dealing with human skin tend to be a lot harder and a lot  _ messier. _

At least the potatoes didn’t scream.

* * *

Ouma woke up to the smell of burning food and the sound of faint cursing downstairs. It didn’t take a detective to figure out what was up. His lips quirked into a knowing smile.

_ Ah, Kai-chan. _ He thought fondly as he sat up, sitting down on the edge of the bed to graze his toes against the cold floor. He looked out of the window, noting that the sun has already set. So he had slept through the rest of the day, huh? A part of him was convinced that this was just a dream, and any moment now he’d be back in his own room, up for another night of blood and bruises. The pain that surged through his veins as he leaned down and held his ankle harshly assured him that  _ yes,  _ he was here, this was  _ real,  _ and not just a figment of his cruel imagination. He bit his lip as he shuddered through the tremors of what he classified as  _ good pain— _ good only because he was the one inflicting it, he was the one calling the shots, and the feeling of blissful control was no less intoxicating. He added another sharp squeeze just for good measure, just enough to get him groaning and panting, sweat beading on his forehead as his body caved and trembled into itself.

Momota was right, he realized. Ouma was indeed a slut for pain.

His stomach growled, and he immediately braced himself to ignore it. Because it wasn’t morning yet, and surely in the morning he could get something to eat—but it was then that he remembered with a bit of wonder that he wasn’t in his stepfather’s house anymore. Momota wouldn’t mind him going down to ask for food, would he? Maybe even help him with whatever dish he just burned in the kitchen? Feeling a bit more hopeful and enthusiastic, Ouma stood up from the bed, putting his weight on his good foot as he hopped around the room, stumbling down towards the stairs.

As soon as he arrived at the first floor, he peeked around the living room, noting that the place still looked the same since the last time he was here. Unsurprising, really. He  _ did  _ notice though, that there was a new brown stain on the carpet, and the Monokuma plush toy he had spotted before was now leaking stuffing from its neck on the center table. It was evident that  _ someone  _ (Momota, who else?), used the poor thing as a goddamn stress ball. Ouma picked it up gingerly, noting the direction of the rip with particular attention. Talk about taking out your frustrations.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind him.

“The fuck are you doing here? You should be in bed,” Momota’s voice grumbled. He still sounded mildly frustrated, no doubt because of the mess he must’ve made in the kitchen. Ouma didn’t bother looking up, he simply traced a finger over one of the rips on the doll, before murmuring.

“You murdered Monokuma.”

Ouma wasn’t sure if it was his unrelated answer or the interesting choice of words that seem to make Momota pause, but when he replied, he sounded less irritated and more resigned. “Yeah, well, the sixth trial for fifty-one came and went, and it was fucking  _ bullshit,  _ so I got frustrated.”

Ouma hummed, looking up at him skeptically, if not a little disappointingly. “You watch the show?”

Momota nodded in affirmation as he took off the apron he was still wearing, tossing it nonchalantly towards one of the couches. “I don’t like it, but I don’t exactly hate it either. It  _ is  _ a bit of a drag though.” he admitted. “I mean, the people there are fucking amateurs, they can’t even kill  _ right.  _ And the apocalyptic shit at the end gets predictable over time, you know?” He frowned. “But the rest of the world seem to like it, so the least I could do is pretend I do too, just to seem more normal.”

Curious, Ouma tilted his head. He didn’t think Momota of all people would be the type to care about being  _ normal. _ “Why do you even bother?” he asked, placing the doll back down so it sits on the table. Its head was tilted back in an almost grotesque, inhuman display that made a morbid smile creep upon Ouma’s lips.

Momota simply shrugged. “Anything to make my life easier. I don’t go proclaiming my hatred of the killing games in opening ceremony speeches,” he replied, before his eyes lifted to lock on his, magenta hues sparkling teasingly. “That’s social suicide.”  

Ouma collapsed himself onto the couch with a huge grin. “Well, you should try it sometime, if you hate people so much,” he teased back. “They’ll all avoid you like the plague.”

Momota looked as if he was seriously considering it. “Is that fun?”

_ Fun.  _ Ouma paused at the question as he leaned back and stared at the ceiling, turning the word over and over in his head. Being alone, being avoided, being  _ isolated…  _ was it  _ fun?  _ No, no it wasn’t, he realized. He should’ve expected it really. Humans are social animals, after all. He stared back at the doll as he replied, voice small and thoughtful. “Not really… but it was necessary. Makes  _ my _ life easier.”

That caught Momota’s attention. “Easier?”

“Less friends mean less kicks in the gut.” Ouma replied easily, and Momota’s expression instantly darkened, realizing he’s talking about his abusive background. Ouma immediately felt like he had to at least mention the silver lining. “It’s not like I mind,” he assured him. “I don’t think I’d enjoy socializing in  _ this  _ society anyway. Not when people around me practically get off on some second-rate reality killing game show.”

That seemed to do the trick. Momota looked less angry and more curious, as if something about what Ouma said just didn’t sound right. “Kokichi,  _ we _ get off on real, actual  _ murder. _ How does that make us any better?”

“At least we’re aware we’re horrible people, Kai-chan.” Ouma replied, not missing a beat. “Everyone else around us deludes themselves that they’re all  _ normal. _ Just because the blood they drool for is pink. Just because the people they send to their deaths will wake up again anyway. Just because it’s  _ fiction. _ ” Ouma paused as he met Momota’s gaze. “Did you know that four out of five participants in that game kill themselves in the next ten years after their season? It’s true.”

Momota blinked, surprised. “How did you know?”

Ouma made a secretive smile. “Research,” he lied.

“Out of curiosity?”  

Ouma nodded slowly. “Danganronpa is a fucking plague. It’s tasteless, as all reality TV shows are, but what I really despise more is the way people enjoy it.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “ _ We _ embrace the consequences of our actions, Kai-chan. You know you’re a murderer. I know I might as well be one too, at this point.  We know we’re sick in the head. But everyone… everyone else  _ doesn’t _ . They’re content to let other people inflict suffering on others for _ their _ amusement, all while proclaiming there’s nothing wrong with them. Hypocrites, I’d say.” He lifted his feet on the couch and hugged his knees close to his chest. “This whole thing doesn’t make us  _ better  _ people, no, but it does make us different. And to be honest… I like our brand of cruelty better.”

Momota let out a soft hum of agreement. He reached a hand out to ruffle Ouma’s hair, and Ouma found himself sighing contentedly, leaning against his touch.

“You’re really something.” Momota said with a faint smile. “I honestly have never thought of those kinds of things before.”

“Being alone has its perks—I have a lot of thinking time.” Ouma replied. “I… think a lot.”

“Oh? About what kind of stuff?”

_ Murder fantasies,  _ Ouma didn’t say. He wasn’t very proud of it, the fact that he spent eighty percent of his time planning a murder that he was too much of a coward to enact. He was  _ afraid.  _ It wasn’t even the rational kind of fear. He knew, deep inside, that he could do it if he tried. But the thought of somehow failing, and what that failure would entail…

He realized his hands were shaking. He wasn’t the only one to notice it either. Momota’s expression softened in understanding, as he crouched in front of him, taking his hand and pulling it close to his lips. The sensation of soft kisses dotting against his knuckles made Ouma melt—ah, this was the touch he missed  _ so much.  _ This was the person he missed  _ so much.  _ And he’s right there in front of him, eyes alight with some emotion he couldn’t quite recognize.

Momota’s eyes met his and he felt like his heart would burst, and then… he bit on his skin, hard.

“Ow!” Ouma winced, but he didn’t pull his hand back. Momota ran his tongue against the abused skin, sending a wave of heat down Ouma’s spine.

“You liked that,” Momota remarked. It wasn’t a question.

“I did,” Ouma admitted, trying to even his breathing, which had gone a little ragged from the sudden pain.

That admission seemed to make Momota wonder as his teeth grazed his skin yet again. Ouma let out a small shudder, stifling the small whimper that was trying to escape his lips. Another bite, this time  _ harsher _ . Momota looked like a beast, staring at him with those smoldering magenta eyes.

“Why?” Momota asked. Ouma wrinkled his eyebrows, because what kind of question was that?

“Because it’s Kai-chan..?” he tried. Surprisingly, Momota frowned, not seeming to like this answer.

“So you’d be okay with me doing  _ anything  _ to you?” he asked, sounding troubled.

“Of course not,” Ouma easily replied. What brought this on all of a sudden? Momota was  _ so weird.  _ “But Kai-chan never really does anything unless he knew I’d like it, does he?”

Silence. Momota stared at him with wide eyes- wonder and fascination shining on those magenta irises. He leaned in, almost hesitantly, placing Ouma’s hand on his own cheek. Ouma smiled as he stroked Momota’s cheek softly, in an exchange that almost felt intimate, relieving.

“You’d trust me that much?” Momota asked.

“Kai-chan’s the only one who tried to get to know me,” Ouma admitted. “Kai-chan is special. That’s why he’s very important to me.”

Momota opened his mouth as if to say something, but no voice came out of his mouth. There was  _ that _ expression again, an emotion Ouma couldn’t understand. Eventually Momota looked down, seemingly contemplating something, but Ouma didn’t miss the faint pink that blossomed in his cheeks.

A blush. Ouma had to smile. 

Momota looked up, his expression breaking into a small, kindly grin. “I don’t think I’m really all that special you know. I’m just a guy who liked bashing heads in.” He placed a palm on Ouma’s cheek stroking the skin with his thumb affectionately. “Personally, I think you just need to let go, Kokichi. You’re too restricted.”

Ouma hesitated, mumbling miserably. “I don’t know how.”

“Well, let’s start by killing your old man.”

Ouma shot him a look.

“What?” Momota asked defensively. “I’m serious. You need to get rid of him before anything else. You need to be  _ free,  _ Kokichi.”

Ouma’s lips twitched. “Says the guy who chained me up.”

“Hey! At the end of the day, I still let you go, okay?”

“Must be because Kai-chan has such a soft spot for me~” Ouma teased. To his wonder, Momota didn’t even deny it. He simply shrugged with a small smile as he continued lavishing his knuckles with kisses. His magenta eyes glinted with a dark promise, something that says  _ I got you  _ and  _ I’ll take care of you  _ and  _ I’ll ruin you _ all in one.

Ouma didn’t hate it.

“Consider it, okay?” Momota said with a concerned gaze, as if they weren’t discussing a potential murder. “I’ll help you. I’ll keep you safe. He’ll never hurt you ever again.”

Ouma felt himself melt at those words. Those were the words he had longed to hear for a long, long time. He swallowed thickly, seeing the utter sincerity in Momota’s eyes. He wasn’t used to this. This… gentleness. He wasn’t used to this at all.

“I’m hungry,” he blurted, despite the fact that the hunger pains that awoke him were now nowhere to be found. It was his pathetic excuse to stray from the subject. At the mention of food, Momota frowned.

“I burned dinner,” he confessed, sounding troubled.

“Maybe we can still salvage it?” Ouma tried. It’s not like he was picky with food. He has always been used to eating food that looks bad and tastes bad and probably already went bad a long time ago: so whatever it was Momota fucked up, he didn’t think it would even compare to the worst meal he ever had. “What did you even try to cook, anyways?”

To this Momota looked even more troubled. “I don’t know.”

Ouma couldn’t help it, he burst into a fit of giggles.

“Hey! Not everyone can be as good as you! Give me a break!” he said indignantly.

Ouma kept giggling. “I know! But  _ some  _ people at least know what they’re trying to make, Kai-chan!”

“I was trying to make something healthy!”

“Oh, and I suppose brown and black soot is now considered healthy.”

Momota ran a hand through his hair as he gave him a look of warning. “Stop being all smartass to me, you little shit.”

“Or what?” Ouma asked as he tilted his head to the side, confidently. “You’re going to punish me?”

Momota’s tongue poked between his teeth as he seemed to consider that. When he spoke, his eyes were smoldering, tone low and seductive. “Only if you want me to.”

The effect was instantaneous. Ouma felt blissful heat run down his spine as he leaned in and rose to the challenge. “I do,” he affirmed.

Something flashed in Momota’s eyes: approval. “Good.”

Ouma’s breath hitched. “Are we going to play now?”

“Not until you’ve got some food in you,” Momota replied. “I’m not feeding you that dogshit I made. Hmm… what to do…”

Ouma’s posture perked up, excited at the prospect of play. Playing with Momota was always  _ fun,  _ whether it be innocent, playful teasing or mind-blowing sex or just outright torture scenes in basement- the place Ouma has started calling in his head as Momota’s “murder dungeon”. Hell, he was happy that he was going to get some more good food too- it was always a blessing to eat something nice- he was  _ so  _ lucky that Momota was so generous, always so generous, and for that he really did adore him! A lot!  _ Kai-chan is the best! _

Momota seem to be mulling his options. He glanced outside from the window, noting the now setting sun in the afternoon sky. Soon it would be dark, but the city close to them doesn’t really sleep, and the taller boy’s expression brightened as he realized something. He scratched his chin a bit, glancing at Ouma with a boyish smile, almost embarrassed. It was  _ cute. _

“Hey, Kokichi,” he said, catching his attention. “How about we go on a date?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a bland chapter and I am looking forward to the date more becauseee its gonna give me a chance to FINALLY do some worldbuilding. owo
> 
> Also, there's a very very small in this chapter that makes me giggle. A detail that will probably be relevant soon. =w=


	10. “That one’s a screamer.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma and Momota's first date: Part One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BELATED MERRY CHRISTMAS! 
> 
> So yeah, I know I said in my tumblr to not expect updates in the holidays but I got this done and this fic hasn't updated in two months sooooo.... 
> 
> Yep. I gotta.
> 
> Dedicated to @Blue_delight in AO3 and @kosonah on tumblr! Your beautiful fanarts are the ones I stared at while writing this one. Helped me get out of my slump so yaaay

For the first time in months _ ,  _ Ouma stared at himself in the mirror. 

Dark, plum colored hair, brushing against his shoulders. Sickly pale skin. Blank lilac eyes. Ouma hated  _ all of it.  _ He lifted his hand to his face, fingers tracing just underneath that eye socket, wondering how it would feel if he just gouged those eyeballs out, fingers digging into skin, further… just a little bit further _ —  _

There was a sudden rapping at the door. Ouma yelped, jumping in surprise. Momota’s voice echoed from outside the bathroom, calling out. Excitement was evident in his voice. “Kokichi, don’t take too long in there, okay? It’s getting late soon, I wanna show you a few places!” 

Ouma let out a small sigh of relief as he tried to remember: that’s right. He wasn’t in his dad’s house right now. He was here with Momota—Momota who bothered to help him, Momota who bothered to carry him back to his home. And now Momota was going to take him out on a date. His… first date. Ouma swallowed hard as he considered the idea of actually going outside into the heart of the city, being  _ exposed…  _

He stared at his reflection again, feeling his heart start to race as he tried to figure out what to do. He can’t go out like this. He can’t go out, can’t go, can’t go out like  _ this.  _ They’ll recognize him. It was easier in school, where he’d already made quite a reputation. Where everyone else avoided him like the plague. It’s not easy going outside his comfort zone. Did Momota have a hat he could hide under? His hair was  _ too long.  _

Too long, too long, too long—

_ Just like hers.  _

He pulled at the strands, realizing that his breathing has turned ragged. He wished he could pull his hair out from his scalp, make himself bleed, make it  _ hurt _ —because he didn’t like living like this. Always in her shadow, always afraid. Deep inside, he always was. It was just so easy to pretend he wasn’t— 

_ please don’t touch me like you touched her like they watched her I’m not her I’m not her I’m not her I’m not weak I’m strong _

Ouma gasped, stumbling back. Items clattered on the bathroom floor. He covered his mouth as his mind raced— _ not there not there I’m not there anymore. Calm down, calm down—  _ __  
_  
_ His eyes locked on an object on the floor. Relief surged into his entire body as he dove for it—like it was his salvation in the storm. At that moment, it was—it’s been so long since he panicked over something like this. But then again, it’s been so long since he spent so much time being  _ actually present  _ in this world, too. Getting lost in his head was  _ too easy.  _ Getting lost in his head made everything  __ bearable.  But Momota was here now. Momota was here and he’ll make it all better.

Ouma held onto the pair of scissors tightly, staring at his reflection in the mirror. 

_ I’m not her.  _

**Snip.**

_ Stop looking at me.  _

**Snip.**

_ Don’t touch me.  _

**Snip. Snip. Snip.**

* * *

“Why did you take so…  _ oh.” _

Ouma shuffled uneasily as he tugged at his clothes, a bit unsure of about how to feel about borrowing Kaito's old ones. At least he wouldn't have to go to this  _ date  _ looking like a poorly dressed scarecrow. He looked up at the taller boy, trying to figure what his reaction could possibly be, but Momota’s expression was blank. He reached out towards him, ruffling his hair… before his fingers continued on to caress the too-short strands, the hair hitting Ouma’s cheeks a little higher than usual.

“You cut your hair,” Momota murmured. 

Ouma frowned. “Yeah, so what?” He wasn’t used to the idea of anyone caring. “It was getting long and irritating. I…” he reached up and played with the choppy strands, absentmindedly. “I do this every once in a while. Since I was little.” 

“Hm~” Momota hummed as he put a hand under his chin, contemplative. “You remind me of someone from Danganronpa.” 

Ouma stiffened.  

“I can’t figure out which one though, I’m bad at names,” Momota continued as he looked up at the ceiling, mulling it over. “There’s something about that hair-”  

_ No,  _ Ouma pleaded.  _ No, no, no, no.  _

“Ah, I got it!” Momota grinned. “Tsumiki Mikan!”

The relief that surged through Ouma’s veins was  _ overwhelming.  _ He stumbled back, nearly falling over himself, and if Momota hadn't caught him on time he probably would have bonked his head on the floor. 

“Hey, you alright?” Momota asked, worried. 

“Just dizzy,” Ouma lied, and for once he was grateful that he still had the head injury to maximize the effect. Momota stared at him with a soft hum, eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

“You're fidgety,” he observed. 

“I don't like going outside,” Ouma admitted, looking away. School was easier, he had spent literal years making sure that people would just avoid him. Even if they recognized him, they would be far too nervous and scared to try and talk to the school freak. But going into the heart of the city was different. There were… more people there. More people that he didn’t know. More people that will stare. More people that might look, and  _ see  _ and say— 

He clutched at his hair, finding solace in the fact that some strands fell directly over his face. A part of him wished he had the choice to dye it to something other than the color of dark plum, but then his stepdad would notice and punish him again, accuse him of wasting money. As if money would ever be a problem. 

(At the same time though, Ouma couldn't help but think removing all her traces from him felt  _ wrong—) _

Momota hesitated. “Well, if you don't wanna go outside, maybe we should just have some food delivered instead—” 

“No!” Ouma suddenly yelled, staring up at Momota eagerly. “No, I mean— I… I'm not comfortable with going outside but… uhm, I want to…” he trailed off, feeling his cheeks burn a little from the embarrassment of being overly excited about something so mundane. “I want to… experience eating outside. Restaurants and stuff. Even fast food! I've never…”

Momota gave him an incredulous look. “ _ Never?” _

Ouma nodded shyly. 

“Holy shit, now we  _ really _ need to go.”

Ouma licked his lips and suppressed a smile, yet again baffled by the generosity that Momota always grants him, generosity that he had never really experienced before. Momota was  _ sweet-  _ so sweet that it was almost concerning, because Ouma didn't really believe people could care for other people without expecting something in return. To this day he still wasn't sure what exactly it was that Momota wanted from him.  Momota wanted something, he was certain, but Ouma didn't think it was something as simple as money. Perhaps he just really wanted playmates. Perhaps he liked the sex...?

"Hey, shouldn't we get going?" Momota asked, breaking Ouma's train of thought. The smaller boy blinked when he realized that Momota was crouched right in front of him, showing him his back, looking over his shoulder. A peculiar position.... 

Ouma frowned, genuinely confused. "Kai-chan, what…?” 

Momota rolled his eyes, but he looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. "It's called a piggy-back ride, Mr. Hermit. Your ankle still hurts, right? I'll carry you so you won't have to go and put weight on it. You're light anyway. C'mere, lay yourself on my back."

Hesitantly, Ouma followed his instructions, but not without murmuring under his breath how unnecessary all this was. So what if his ankle was still sprained? He could walk on his bad foot through a  _ fracture _ . It's not really that hard. Ouma was used to pain. 

But well… he supposed if he kept pushing it, the swelling could get pretty bad. So with a huff, he decided to go along with what Momota wanted to do. Limping, he laid himself on the taller boy’s back, placing his hands over his shoulders. Ouma gasped when Momota finally started to stand up, supporting him by holding his legs on either side of him. The added height and resulting weightlessness were actually… kinda nice. 

He buried his face in Momota’s hair and caught a whiff of his scent. He smelled  _ incredible.  _ Ouma wasn’t about to pretend he knew shit about shampoo brands, but damn if he didn’t want to find out what Momota was using. 

Probably a better alternative than cigarettes. 

The trip from the house to the bus stop was slow. Ouma could never get over the uncanniness of the silence of this neighborhood, couldn’t really figure out why Momota decided to kill everyone off. How did he do it? How long did it take? Did he hate people  _ that  _ much? Now that he thought about it, there were so many things he still didn’t know about Momota. So many things Ouma wanted to ask… but unsure how to. Ouma has never really been the verbally articulate type. He could count how many human interactions he had in the past six months with his fingers. Maybe he should just stop overthinking and just try to…  _ ask _ . 

“So your parents died a while back?”

Momota tensed. Ouma immediately took a metaphorical step back from his interest in the subject. Seems to be the wrong question. Probably a sore spot.  _ Damn. _

“Never mind,” Ouma quickly took it back, not wanting to push any of Momota’s buttons. Especially not when the guy was about to treat him to dinner. Ouma wasn’t about to throw away his chance to get some good food. To his wonder though, Momota eventually relaxed as he continued walking, letting out a half-hearted chuckle.

“No, no. It’s fine,” he replied. “My parents  _ did _ die around five years ago. I’ve been alone since then.”

“Hmm~” Ouma hummed. “But that’s so long ago. Didn’t you have any relatives to take you?” 

He felt rather than see Momota wince. “Well, I’ve got my grandparents and all, but  _ like I said before, _ ” he emphasized that point, stressing that this was not a topic he appreciated talking about. “They don’t like living close to the city.” 

“They don’t like living close to you,” Ouma realized, saying it before he could stop himself. Momota let out a growl under his throat—a warning. Ouma pursed his lips, tightening his hold against Momota’s back in an almost hug, eyes gazing off into nothing. Curious, so curious, he couldn’t help but wonder. “Do they know?” 

“Not the way they think they do,” Momota’s voice was filled with bitterness. There was underlying pain in that tone that was unbecoming of the Momota Ouma knew, the one who was as ruthless as he was unapologetic, the hedonistic killer who looked  _ beautiful  _ in the dim light of the basement—“I wasn’t always like this. I was… normal, you know? Or as close to normal as I could get. And then they died, and then they all  _ left _ , even when I tried so hard to be good—” 

“So you stopped trying,” Ouma murmured as he started kissing softly up Momota’s neck. Momota shivered, letting out a grunt that sounded dismissive. “Were your grandparents alive in the time of Tragedy? How old are they?” 

“Baa-chan is eighty-two. Jii-chan is eighty-four, I think.” Momota frowned. “What did the Tragedy have to do with anything?” 

“Oh, I don’t know—I just figured if they were alive back in the day, then that’s probably why they’d be so scared of you. It’s not Kai-chan’s fault if the old geezers—” 

“Watch it,” Momota warned sternly. 

“—get so easily frightened with the idea of their grandson being _off_ in any way. The official story in the Danganronpa games was that Enoshima was _born_ to despair too, somehow. Not sure if it’s historically accurate, but you get the idea. They probably didn’t want to be in the line of fire if a _second_ tragedy strikes in their remaining lifetime.” 

“That’s stupid,” Momota murmured. “I’m not some Ultimate Despair freak. I’m just me.” 

“And yet, you somehow managed to kill off an entire neighborhood.” 

Momota fell silent for a long moment. Ouma made a self-satisfied grin. “See? Kai-chan is blind to his own abilities.” 

“I didn’t kill them  _ all, _ ” Momota confessed. “A lot of them just moved out after they realized the place was dangerous, and the police aren’t gonna do anything about it. I just needed to make people disappear, spread the rumors and frame two or three people to get the authorities off my back. Surprisingly easy. Took me around six, seven months but…” 

“How did you do it?”

“Well, the first few families I poisoned at their dinner table.” Momota’s voice was nonchalant, as if he was talking about the weather. “A lot of my parents’s old friends seem to be fond of inviting me over since they died, so I started with them. Took me a while to find someone willing to sell me something lethal off the internet, but once I had that…” 

“It would have taken a lot 0f money and planning and time,” Ouma realized, getting more and more amazed the more he thought about it. “You invested so much effort—why?” 

“I don’t like people butting in my business.” 

“Something tells me that’s not the only reason.” 

“What’s it to you?!” Momota _snapped_. Ouma’s felt himself shrink at the sheer anger in that voice. He was about to apologize, drop the subject, promise not to ever open it up ever again, but then Momota let out a heavy sigh and squared his shoulders. When he spoke, he still sounded frustrated, but more collected. “ _Shit._ I… I didn’t mean to yell,” he swallowed hard. “I didn’t… I’m not… I’m _sorry_.”

Ouma closed his eyes and snuggled closer. “No, I was prying. Even when Kai-chan is already being so good to me.” 

Silence. One step, two… 

“You ever think the world is unfair?” Momota asked.

_ All the time,  _ Ouma didn’t say. He simply nodded. 

“That’s how I felt,” Momota confessed. “I was thirteen, mourning, abandoned, but the world moved on. The world didn’t care about what happened to me. It didn’t care that the house being so goddamn silent scared the crap out of me. Didn’t care that I barely know shit about cooking or taking care of myself. Didn’t care how much watching all these people look so goddamn happy while I’m fucking miserable  _ hurt. _ ” He let out a shaky breath. “I’m not going to delude myself that I’m doing the right thing. I’m not. I’m fucking  _ horrible. _ A monster. But as far as I’m concerned, all I did was make this world bearable to live in—” 

Ouma turned Momota’s head to the side and kissed him.

Momota paused, and Ouma could feel the way his tense body slowly relaxed. Melting into the softness of Ouma’s lips, kissing him back. The angle was difficult, but when they parted, Momota’s eyes were wide, staring at Ouma as if he was seeing an angel. His salvation. His hope.

Ouma just wanted to take all that pain away. And he could. He  _ totally  _ could. He already did. 

_ “Kai-chan likes being taken care of, doesn’t he?” _

He never would have guessed that he could be so spot on. Suddenly, he understood  _ perfectly.  _ Everything made sense. At the very core of their strange relationship, amongst all the play and the sex and the morbid affection—Momota just wanted one thing from him, and one thing only. 

_ Company.  _

Ouma could give him that… probably. 

The smaller boy continued kissing against Momota’s neck, breathing against his skin, biting against the shell of his ear—

“K-Kichi,” Momota moaned. “S-Stop.  _ Shit.  _ Do you  _ want  _ me to throw you on the pavement and fuck you in the middle of the road?” The last question was asked with a growl. A threat. “ _ You  _ need to eat.” 

Ouma giggled. “Eat  _ what,  _ exactly?” 

“ _ Kokichi _ !”

Ouma giggled harder. “Fine, fine, geez! You’re such a prude Kai-chan.”

“Only when I’m trying to make sure you won’t starve.” 

“I starve all the time! It’s not even a big deal anymore.” Ouma laughed. He only realized that he must have said something strange when Momota paused and gave him a concerned look. “What?” 

“How often?”

Ouma blinked, confused by the question. “How often… do I starve?’ 

Momota nodded. 

“ _ Always _ ,” Ouma replied, as casually as one would talk about the weather. As casually as Momota talking about how many people he had killed. “Or maybe not  _ technically  _ always. Sometimes I can sneak and eat some of the food in the fridge without getting caught and being forced to throw it all up, sometimes I get lucky and actually get involved bunch of bullies who liked watching me act like a dog and beg for their lunch, and sometimes I get once-in-a-lifetime chances where someone nice actually gives me food without any catch or consequences! Like the night Kai-chan let me stay! Even if I do have to cook for both of us, that curry was  _ incredible!”  _ There was also that time back when he was ten, when he was able to eat and ask for  _ anything  _ he wanted—for an entire two weeks! It was both heaven and hell. Especially whenever they stop him to take some pictures and—

_ Don’t think about it,  _ he warned himself.  _ Just don’t—think about it!  _

“Though I guess it’s not exactly a once-in-a-lifetime thing, huh?” Ouma continued, realizing he sounded a little breathy already. He cleared his throat. “A-After all, Kai-chan is taking me out on a dinner date, and all!”

Momota hummed. “I’ll take you on as many dates as you want. We can buy groceries, so you can cook all you want, too. You’ll never have to starve anymore.”

Ouma tensed. The mere idea… sounded too good to be true. “T-That’s…” 

“All we need is to kill your old man, and you’ll  _ never  _ have to deal with  _ any  _ of his shit anymore,” Momota urged. The offer was so sweet— _ too sweet.  _ Ouma felt like he was going to go sick. “Trust me.” 

Ouma swallowed hard, falling silent. 

Momota adjusted him on his back, as if he was making sure he was nice and comfortable. Hard to imagine this was the same person who grasped tight at his hair and fucked his mouth violently only a month ago. His calloused hand had a gentleness to it that was so comfortable, Ouma was tempted to fall asleep against his back, just like that. Forget everything about neglectful grandparents and serial killing and starvation and abuse—just fall asleep against someone who  _ truly cared  _ about him. But he didn’t. Instead he watched the setting sun, bathing everything in a yellow-orange glow.

Momota was still waiting for his reply, but Ouma didn’t have any. He didn’t want to think about it, not now. So Ouma responded the only way he knew how—changing the subject. The smaller boy let his hand cup Momota’s cheek, trailing down his neck, fingers settling on his jugular. Delicate fingertips brushed against tan skin, and Ouma smiled at the way Momota shivered. 

“I wonder how far I can tear at your throat with my bare fingernails. Hey, hey, Kai-chan- want me to try?” His fingernails were long and sharp at the moment, after all. You didn’t really get to do much basic grooming while being beaten up. 

A rumble, erupting from Momota’s chest. Ouma only realized after a moment that it was laughter. “Just you try, and  _ when  _ you fail, you bet I’m gonna get back at you in all horrible ways imaginable.” His voice lowered seductively, in a way that made Ouma giggle. “But you’d probably like that, won’t you?” 

Ouma had a stupid smile on his face as he scraped his nail under Kaito’s chin, just brushing that goatee. “Yeah, all you’re doing is just tempting me now, Kai-chan.” 

Momota’s voice was fond. “Sick basta—” 

Momota didn’t even had the chance to finish. Suddenly, his muscles tensed yet again, head and body turning towards another direction so fast it made Ouma dizzy. It was like watching a beast sniff at the air when Ouma peeked at Momota’s expression curiously, watching his eyes narrow suspiciously at one of the alleyways in his ghost town of a neighborhood—first annoyed, then alarmed and then… troubled. 

“Kai-chan…?” Ouma asked, carefully. Momota didn’t speak for a long time but after a moment, he relaxed, looking utterly confused. 

“I thought I saw something,” he replied, scanning the houses for a long while, until finally, he gave up. “Must have been my imagination. Let’s go.” 

Ouma hummed as he lifted his gaze and watched his surroundings with interest. Nothing seemed to be amiss. The only thing that moved were the dry leaves that were blown by the wind. He didn’t see anything, not really—but then again, Ouma didn’t make a habit of being observant of the world around him.

Maybe Momota was right. Just his imagination. He  _ did  _ mention getting scared as hell about the silence of his own home… things like that can make a person oversensitive. 

Ouma tore his eyes away and settled back in the comfort of Kaito’s back. In the distance right in front of them, he could make out the bus stop. He grinned and pointed playfully.

“Almost there! Onwards, Kai-chan!” 

Momota laughed. 

In the corner of the street, concealed by the shadow of two houses, someone clicked the shutter of their digital camera. 

* * *

Momota kept glancing back and frowning ever once in a while even as they walked down the bus.

He just… couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. It started around a month ago and has only been getting more and more frequent. Even so, Momota wasn’t really that concerned. He was bothered by the idea that someone is sniffing around his privacy, sure, but even if they found out about his illegal activities and decided to report him to the authorities, Momota didn’t think that would be such a bad thing. Let them try and take him on. It might actually be fun to dance with fire, for once. 

Momota didn’t fear punishment. Living the way he does, assuming he could just get away with everything was absurd. Momota has always been living with the idea that he’s going to get caught someday. But that was back when he didn’t care for anything, back when he figured he’d be and  _ stay  _ all alone. 

If he  _ did  _ get caught, would Ouma miss him? 

The idea that someone  _ might  _ miss him was enough to make Momota wonder if there was a way he could catch and kill his stalker. Maybe he should actually make an effort to get under the radar for longer. 

“Kai-chan? Something the matter?” Ouma asked, tilting his head and looking over the menu he’s been drooling over for a while now. Lilac eyes bright and excited, he was  _ adorable.  _ Momota didn’t even have to force a grin as he leaned over the table and gave him a look. 

“Say, if I get punished for my sins, will you miss me?” the question was left vague and strange, in case that woman in the corner who kept glancing at Ouma was listening in. Ouma didn’t seem to notice. Or rather, he seemed to be making an  _ effort  _ to not glance at her direction. Momota didn’t get it. Sure, Ouma was pretty, but did that really account for so much  _ staring?  _

“Sure I would!” Ouma replied eagerly, his feet wiggling in the air childishly, despite the nervousness that settled in his shoulders. Nervousness that didn’t seem to have any connection to the question Momota was asking. “Though to be honest, I’d be  _ more  _ surprised if the authorities actually do their jobs. There’s only so many things the Team Danganronpa—I’m sorry,  _ Future Foundation _ —can cover up before their whole zero percent crime rate claim starts smelling like bullshit. I don’t need them to tell me there’s nothing off with this world when I’m living smack dab in the middle of  _ all  _ that’s wrong in it.” 

Momota snickered at the obviously intentional blunder. It was true, Team Danganronpa, the network and the Future Foundation, the government was obviously in cahoots for a long time now. At this point, they might as well be one and the same.

One of the waitresses in the family diner bumped their tray with a clatter and Ouma winced, looking around nervously before he buried his face in the menu again. “W-Well, never mind all that stuff! I wanna eat! Say, Kai-chan, is there anything you recommend?” 

“Everything.” 

Ouma looked up from the menu and gave him a look. Momota made a smug grin. 

“Order  _ everything _ . You want to at least taste them all, right?” 

Ouma hesitated, but his eyes were doing that thing again where he looked like a deer caught in headlights, before he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “We won’t be able to finish it. Wasting food is  _ not okay. _ ” 

“Then we’ll make them wrap up the rest so we can take it with us home for breakfast.” 

Ouma faltered.

“I can afford it,” Momota assured him. His parents left him quite a lot to live comfortably.

Ouma bit his lip, conflicted. Finally, he replied in a small murmur, “I’ll pay you back.” 

Momota didn’t even know  _ how  _ he’s planning to. Ouma didn’t seem to have any part time jobs. “You don’t need to—” 

“I’ll pay you back,” Ouma insisted, frowning at the table. “N-Not now, not anytime soon. But one day…”

Momota hummed and leaned in a bit more. “Well, if you want to, you can pay me back by doing me a favor.” Ouma’s eyes lifted to meet his gaze, cocking an eyebrow. Momota grinned, making a stabbing motion with his hand. Of course he’s talking about his stepfather again. “You know which one.” 

Ouma’s lips lifted. “Sex?” 

Momota gasped, sounding utterly wounded. “Kokichi! Do I look like that kind of guy to you?” 

Ouma giggled, covering his mouth a little bit. “Well, you  _ are  _ giving the sugar daddy vibe. Offering all these things, caring for me, buying me food, offering to take away all my worries—what are you, some knight in shining armor?” 

_ I wish, _ Momota thought. “I just want you to be free, Kokichi. If you want to, I’ll do it for you—” Ouma  _ glared.  _ Momota chuckled nervously. “Or not. You obviously don’t like that, either. What are  _ you,  _ some kind of martyr?”

Ouma shot him an unimpressed look. 

“I mean, I pegged you as the kind of guy who’d have no remorse sucking my wallet dry, to be honest,” Momota continued. “I thought you’d be the kind of person who’d have no problems taking advantage of me. A manipulative fucker, if I go by the way you chose to treat our little guest last time. So what gives? You try to be fair to me, but you can’t even be fair to  _ yourself?” _

“That’s not true,” Ouma snapped. 

“It is,” Momota insisted. “You deserve to get rid of that bastard. Let yourself take what’s rightfully yours. Freedom. Safety. Food?” 

Ouma’s cheeks flushed pink when his stomach growled as if on cue. Momota chuckled good-naturedly. He called over the waitress, telling her to give him one of everything on the menu, joking with her a fair bit about how terribly hungry they were. Ouma, as usual, hid his face behind the menu, not speaking even when the waitress tried to address him. Soon enough she had confirmed their order, placed some iced tea on their table and walked away with a big smile, and magenta eyes followed her as she walked towards the kitchen.

Momota picked the cool drink and sipped thoughtfully as he murmured. “That one’s a screamer.”

Ouma didn’t even miss a beat as he drank off his glass too. “In bed or in your basement?” 

Momota choked on his drink and laughed hard. He had to wheeze a fair bit to catch his breath, before replying teasingly. “Both?”

Ouma pouted and frowned at his drink. “Kai-chan is such a slut.”

“What, you’re jealous?” 

“A little bit.” 

Momota’s heart skipped a beat. He disguised his stupid, lovesick smile with a cough, but he’s pretty sure with the way Ouma’s lips smirked that he must have caught it. Regardless, neither of them chose to address it. They waited for their food to arrive in silence, only broken by Ouma’s fingers impatiently tapping on the table. Momota looked out the window, absentmindedly watching the setting sun. On the building right across the street he noticed some middle aged guy peeking out from his office window, face blank and hopeless. 

“Say, Kokichi, you say you don’t go downtown often?” 

“Yes,” Ouma replied, poking the straw of his drink in boredom. 

“Then you’ve probably never seen the show we’re about to get.” 

Ouma blinked and frowned at him, confused. Momota pointed right outside. The smaller boy turned his head curiously, just in time to see the same poor fucker climbing out of the same window he was earlier peeking from, even when he was at least four stories up.

One foot on the windowsill. Two. The crowd outside continued walking like normal, unaware. Momota noticed one of their fellow diners look over and frown as if annoyed. 

Ouma’s face was unreadable. The man jumped down.

He burst into a million shades of red as his head cracked against the pavement.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few things I am concerned about in this chapter so I guess I should talk about it before you guys ask in the comments: 
> 
> If you think Kokichi's demeanor has changed its because it has, indeed. His nonchalance in the previous chapters is brought upon by dissociation, because he's trained himself not to care about a lot of things to survive. Now, he's... well... he's trying to stay on Earth better because Momota had proven that he's safe to be around. He's suppressing his feelings a lot less, now, which I think is actually healthy, even if its reminding him of all the bad memories.
> 
> Also: I hope the thing about the tragedy didn't feel like it came out of nowhere. Even if it kinda did, lol. That's right- the Tragedy isn't fictional in this AU, but it has happened around 70 years ago. There's really no way to naturally put it into the conversation until now, because as far as Momota and Ouma were concerned, it's a background detail. Believe me: I tried. Do you think about world history often? I think not. 
> 
> In my defense, I had this statement back on Chapter One: "Boredom brought the world down to despair, both in fiction as in reality, as the masses became engrossed by the Killing Games, satisfying their primal urges through the colorful world of fiction." Yep, Ouma wasn't just being melodramatic when he thought that. 
> 
> I hope to world-build some more now that Momota and Ouma are actually outside and not cooped up in their little worlds. >:D
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. "I win."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma and Momota's first date: Part Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINISHED THIS CHAPTER! THANKS FOR PATIENTLY WAITING :DDD
> 
> I know Mondays are my "update days" but lets just post this today so I dont have to worry and get lazy tomorrow. 
> 
> FBTG UPDATE IS FINISHED TOO AND COMING SOON so if you're a fan of that too, stay tuned, it'll be up in like... an hour or so. I'm proofreading it at the moment. 
> 
> LET'S GOOOOO

Ouma couldn’t breathe.

It was a reaction resembling the time he drove that boy to suicide, watching a scene filled with so much despair and hopelessness that it ripped the air out of his lungs. While back then he considered it a side effect of a heady ecstasy, this time all he could feel was the sickening dread. Curling against his throat and gripping his heart, triggering memories he did _not_ want to remember—

A body. Swinging back and forth. Like a pendulum. Hanging lifelessly on that noose was—

 _Looks fun,_ Ouma thought.

He waited. He waited to see what everyone’s else’s reaction would be. No—he _hoped._ He hoped for a different reaction than he expected they would give. But the world was always so adamant on disappointing him. The passers-by didn’t so much as give the body a passing glance. Even from this far Ouma could see him twitching, and _anyone_ could have at least called an ambulance. Ouma himself would be probably be tempted to help if he didn’t think the guy was beyond saving. But he is. _Everyone_ , as far as Ouma was concerned, was beyond saving. This uncaring world was long gone, rotten to the core. Ouma was doing the guy a favor for letting him leave it.

Besides, if he chose to die, then he’s the worst of the worst. A quitter. Someone who can’t handle it. Someone _weak._

_Crying and sobbing and asking for forgiveness—_

Ouma wasn’t weak.

_Plum-colored hair and lilac eyes and shaking hands reaching up to kiss his forehead—_

He’s strong.

 _“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t_ take _this anymore—”_

Ouma closed his eyes.

These things didn’t bother him when he’s lost in his own head. He didn’t like feeling _anything._ He didn’t like dwelling in unnecessary things. Why did he choose to step out of his shell, again?

The answer was in front of him, looking back and smiling innocently as if they didn’t just watch a man kill himself.

_Ah, Kai-chan._

“I win,” Momota declared.

Ouma blinked, confused.

Noticing the blank look on his face, Momota rolled his eyes. “Remember when we first met? We made a bet about whether or not people would care. You said they would. I said they won’t. So I win.” He grinned.

Ouma paused, poking at his straw again, glancing back outside the window to see what must have been the maintenance staff of the building cleaning up the mess like it was nothing, even scolding a couple of teenagers who tried to take a selfie with the corpse. Morbid. He didn’t the understand why he was the only one who found it morbid. Someone—the owner of the building, probably—was barking at their phone, looking not concerned but annoyed, no doubt asking the police to collect the body.

Just another normal day.

“That’s not fair,” he murmured. “Kai-chan cheated. He had reference.”

“Hm~ guess you’re right.”

The food arrived, but Ouma barely paid it any attention. All excitement was sucked out by his intrigue of the show Momota had introduced him to, wanting to see how the clean up of these things actually occur. Ouma remembered _that woman’s_ body being pulled down carefully, gently, as if she was this precious thing. These people treat the man’s corpse like a very disgusting pile of sandbags. Which—with how bloody everything was—was pretty damn accurate.

“Kokichi?”

Finally, the police car drove by. Ouma noted with interest that as soon as the car pulled over, a boy around their age who was just standing there suddenly perked up and approached the open window.  He and the policeman talked for a while before the officer made a gesture that looked like he was jabbing his thumb over to the trunk.

Are they going to just stuff the body in there… oh wow, they _would_.

“Kokiiiichi…”

Soon enough, the body was taken care of. The boy adjusted his hat and shook his head, talking to the officer some more. The officer laughed boisterously as he patted his shoulder. The boy looked uncomfortable, but for some reason, his eyes lifted to look in Ouma’s direction.

Their eyes met. Lilac to pale gold. The owner of the latter blushed and looked away.

_Huh?_

“Kiiiichi!”

Ouma yelped when he felt a piece of fried chicken get pushed into his mouth via wooden chopsticks. The taste was… well, it was pretty good—effectively catching his attention. Momota looked like a dejected puppy, indignant over being ignored, huffing at him as he offered some rice next.

“Getting some food into you is the whole idea of this date, you know,” he reminded him.

Ouma leaned over to capture those grains into his mouth. Momota let out a small sound, pleased. The smaller boy smiled. “Well, Kai-chan fell to my bait after all! All of that was just a ploy to get you to feed me!”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Kichi.”

Ouma glanced back at the window. The police car, the body, the strange boy with pale gold eyes—they were all gone. Probably already left. Ouma frowned. Why did that boy look so familiar? Where had he seen him before?

Another piece of food was patted against his lips. This time it was tempura. Ouma leaned over and took a bite, enjoying the flavors bursting in his mouth. He was enjoying the look on Momota’s face too—that expression of happiness and relief at the sight of him eating. It was as endearing as it was confusing, because Ouma didn’t think he really got much from this date aside from the really big hole to his wallet. Ouma wondered about what exactly he could do to reciprocate. Slowly, hesitantly, the boy took his own chopsticks, taking a small piece of the chicken and offering it back to Momota.

Momota’s eyes widened before he leaned in to take it into his mouth too. He looked faintly flustered.   

“S-So,” Momota started, as soon as he swallowed his food. “Since you don’t go out here often, any other place you’d like to visit, maybe? We can go to the arcade if you’re into games, or the library, or check out some other shops until it gets late—”

“Don’t we have class tomorrow?”

Momota paused and frowned as if he had forgotten about that small detail. Ouma didn’t talk about how he hoped Momota would skip classes tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that—it was too presumptuous and needy, he figured, to ask Momota to avoid school with him for a while. Momota had a social circle after all, unlike Ouma. He had friends—or at least Ouma thought he did. He almost wished the two of them were classmates somehow, because going to school on his own was scary. He knew his stepfather would find him. And since Ouma didn’t go home again like he’s _supposed to—_

 _How long?_ he wondered, trying to figure out how long he’d be out of commission, this time. A month? Two? A ball of dread rolled down his throat and burst into his stomach. He _really_ didn’t want to have to repeat of last month. But maybe, just maybe… if he managed to gather his courage… he didn’t have to endure that. Ever again.

Momota shrugged as he reached out to give Ouma another bite. Ouma accepted it gratefully. “Well, whatever. We’ll figure it out when we come to that. Let’s just enjoy today, okay? You deserve something nice after that horrible shit with your excuse of a stepdad.”

Ouma hummed thoughtfully, chewing and swallowing his food. Momota reached over to push his bangs away from his face, but Ouma frowned and slapped his hand away, more comfortable when his eyes were half-covered. He pulled one of the dishes close to him—pork katsudon—and practically buried his face in it, cringing at the mention of his stepfather.

That didn’t go unnoticed. Momota let out a soft grumble. “Kokichi,” he scolded.

“What?” Ouma asked, playing innocent.  

“You know you can’t run from it forever. We _will_ do something about that guy, and it better be soon.”

Ouma looked away. A tense silence settled over them as he continued eating, stuffing his face one bite at a time. Keeping his mouth full of food so he didn’t have the chance to speak. Keeping his mouth full with glass and thumbtacks so he didn’t have the chance to—

Ouma winced at the memory and set his chopsticks down. Momota noticed. When he asked, he sounded concerned. “Kichi?”

Ouma swallowed hard. Fear was prickling at his skin again and he hated it—because there was nothing to even fear at the moment. Ouma was fine. Momota was safe. He will always be… _safe._

Like Ouma’s head. Safe. Like the fantasies he indulged in whenever everything was too much. Safe. Like _her_ touch. Safe. A thought suddenly occurred to him, and his eyes widened in panic, because it couldn’t be. Momota couldn’t possibly be—

No, he checked! Back in Momota’s house, he checked. But that memory felt so fleeting, so _unreliably_ fleeting, and despite everything, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had imagined it, too.

Momota reached over the table and held his left hand, concerned. When he lifted his gaze to meet his, those magenta eyes looked so soft, and gentle, and—

Ouma slapped him.

Momota gasped, surprise breaking through that _painfully loving_ expression, followed by a look of utter betrayal. “Kokichi! What was that for?!”

“Hit me,” Ouma demanded.

Momota was confused. “What?”

“I’m not dreaming you up,” Ouma said breathlessly, _indignantly_ , trying to reason himself out of the admittedly irrational idea. But he couldn’t help it. He had never had someone treat him _so well._ Ouma had always had a terribly vivid imagination—it was the only reliable coping mechanism he had. He dreams up a lot of worlds around in his head—the ‘what-if’s and ‘what-could-have-been’s _—what if my real dad never died what if she never got in what if I ran away what if there were people who cared—_

The most recent fantasy was a group of nine troublemakers that genuinely cared about him, but Ouma would never tell anyone about it. It was childish and stupid and _embarrassing._ Ouma wouldn’t be surprised if his sanity already broke at some point in that month-long torture, and he was only way too hopeful to realize it.

Momota’s face had blanked as if he was processing what Ouma just said. Ouma looked up at him pleadingly, desperately, and the hand that was holding his own shifted to close around his wrist.

“I don’t get it but…” Momota tilted his head and frowned. “You need it?”

Ouma’s mouth was dry. He nodded.

Momota’s earlier loving expression morphed into something dark and twisted, the same calculating gaze he had back in the basement, and just seeing that expression back filled Ouma’s heart with utter relief. That was the look in Momota’s face when he choked him. When he pushed him against the bench and ravaged him. So much pain. So much, good, _wonderful_ pain.

Ouma _craved_ it. _Make me feel it. Prove you’re real._ Pain didn’t exist in his fantasies. It didn’t exist in his head. Because back there, nothing was wrong in the world. The world wasn’t sick, or rotten, or _disgusting._ Back there, Ouma was happy. Back there, Ouma was—

Ouma wanted to be happy here, too. But Ouma wasn’t stupid. To live is to suffer. That’s why—

Momota tightened his hold against that wrist, hard enough to bruise. Ouma hissed. “You said you won’t mind me breaking your left wrist,” Momota’s gaze was hard. “But if I do that, you’d have both a sprained ankle _and_ a broken wrist.” Magenta eyes dilating, words spilling, breaths hitching. “You won’t be able to move freely anymore. You can’t leave me so easily anymore. You’d have to rely on me _even more_ while you’re healing up—”

Realization hit Ouma. “You like that.”

Momota shut his eyes. “God _, yes.”_

Silence. Momota opened his eyes. They stared back at each other, magenta to lilac. Two hearts racing, one from fear and one from sheer excitement. Ouma’s heartbeat eventually slowed, comforted by the idea of falling back into known territory. Momota was right, he was a slut for pain. Momota was right—he _needed_ this.

Ouma’s voice lowered to a whisper, knowing the next words he wanted to say wasn’t a lie.

“I like that, too.”

Momota’s eyes widened, his fist tightening with intent. Pulling, twisting. And then—

Ouma’s breath hitched.

_Crack._

* * *

At Momota’s insistence, they visited a clinic after dinner.

The taller boy looked upset. Ouma wondered if it was because the impromptu visit lasted way longer than it should—it took three hours of waiting in the emergency room for a doctor and lying their ass off about Ouma falling down a flight of stairs. His ankle was confirmed to be a sprain after an x-ray, and he was given a wrist brace for his more recent injury. As soon as they walked out the building Ouma murmured something about this whole thing being a waste of time, but Momota only grunted, not meeting his eyes.

The awkwardness continued even as they walked along the still busy streets of the city. Momota was carrying him on his back again, while Ouma used his good hand to hold onto the takeout boxes of their leftover food. Ouma would have felt a bit guilty for being a burden if wasn’t for the fact that Momota had just confessed that he liked Ouma relying on him. Liked it enough to inflict more injuries on him. It was a form of affection that was twisted in its purity, and Ouma vaguely wondered if at one point it would escalate to something more morbid. Like, maybe one of these days Momota would just ask to outright cut off his limbs. Would Ouma mind?

Honestly? He didn’t think he would. It should probably worry him more than it did.

His wrist throbbed. The silence continued to reign. Ouma had no idea where they were going, now.

“Kai-chaaaaan,” he whined at the taller boy’s ear, closing his eyes as he reveled at the warmth of his body. It was already getting cold with autumn making way for winter, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he should have worn more layers. It didn’t matter—Momota was warm enough.

Momota ignored him.

“Kaito-chaaaan,” Ouma drawled out.

Momota continued to ignore him.

Ouma leaned over and bit Momota’s ear.

“Ow!” Momota yelled, cursing under his breath as Ouma giggled softly. “Hey, what was that for?!”

“Not paying attention to me,” the smaller boy cheekily answered. “Stop being such a killjoy. Three hours ain’t so bad, and the date isn’t ruined. We could still go to visit other places! It’s late but I don’t mind it at all so cheer up!”

“What?” Momota frowned, sounding confused. Ouma frowned back at him.

“What?” he echoed. Then after a beat, he clarified, “You’re upset.”

“Yes.” Momota shifted him on his back.

Ouma waited.

Momota didn’t elaborate.

The smaller boy let out a displeased sigh.  “Okay, so you’re not even going to tell me what the hell you’re upset about?”

Momota only let out a displeased grunt. They passed a few more streets, walking around the shops that were more or less already closing up. He supposed that made sense—it was eleven in the evening by his estimation.

A thought occurred to him. Something so stupid it was hilarious.

“Hey, you’re not actually upset about hurting me _,_ are you, Kai-chan?”

Momota’s shoulders tensed. He was immediately defensive. “A-And what’s wrong with that?!”

Ouma burst out laughing. Momota’s scowled, but he let the smaller boy get through the worst of his fit before he let out a groan. “Kokichi…”

“You’re so weird!” Ouma exclaimed. “You were there at the restaurant looking all hot and bothered for the chance to break my wrist, and now you’re telling me you actually feel _bad_ about it?”

“Not exactly.” Momota scrambled to explain himself. “I just… I don’t—” he groaned. “ _Kokichi.”_

“Say it,” Ouma urged. “Walk me through your thought process, because Kai-chan, you sure as hell have a fucked up head.”

“Don’t remind me,” Momota mumbled, but even as he said that, his cheeks were turning pink. “I just… I don’t—I dunno.” He sighed, confusion evident in his voice. “I think… I don’t like the idea… of you jumping from one abuser to another. Kichi, I gotta _deserve_ you.”

Ouma frowned. Deserve him, what now? He didn’t understand. Deserving him… what did Momota even mean by that? Ouma was not unfamiliar to the idea of being something other, something _higher,_ but only as a precious commodity.  He had never heard anyone talk about him with such a strange tone before. This strange way of talking… Ouma couldn’t place it. It was almost as if Momota saw him as _a person_. But that’s strange. Ouma had been nothing but a ghost for quite some time now.

Momota sighed heavily, seeming to notice Ouma’s sudden silence. “Forget I said anything. Let’s just check one last place, and then we’ll go back to our home, okay?”

 _Our home,_ Momota called it. As if Ouma _belonged_ there.

Everything was just too good to be true. Surely something like this doesn’t happen in real life. A chance encounter with a stranger that, however imperfect, was right there—primed and ready to take care of him. Surely something like this was one of the fantasies his silly head cooked up— and yet, the throbbing of Ouma’s wrist reminded him that everything was real. Ouma wasn’t dreaming this up. This was real, _he_ was real—and he was _right here._

The warmth of Momota’s body against his was real. The cold bite of the wind against his face was real. The smell of the night air, the weight of the takeout boxes slung against his wrist, the racing beating of his own heart—everything was just so _satisfying._ It took him a long time until it hit, and when it did, he was struck dumb. Because right here, right in this moment—with his sprained ankle and his broken wrist, from the depths of his frozen, black heart—something sparked inside him.

_Ah…_

This was what happiness felt like.

“We’re here,” Momota announced. Ouma looked up.

If he didn’t just convince himself that this moment was real, he probably would have gotten confused all over again. They were in what seems to be a plaza, where the trees were brightly lit with colorful lights that shift and blink every so often. There in the middle right in front of them stood a really big… _thing,_ object, monument—Ouma wasn’t sure. It seemed to resemble a fir tree though, but it was decorated with more lights and even more ornaments around its leaves and branches.

A distant memory flashed his head. Oh, it’s— “A Christmas tree,” he murmured.

Momota nodded enthusiastically as he helped him down onto a nearby bench. As late as it was, the plaza was still half-filled with people, but they were quickly dispersing as the night continued to set in. Ouma’s eyes remained transfixed on the tree, even as Momota explained, “They always light this place up once December comes in. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Ouma couldn’t disagree. “Yeah, it’s pretty.”

Momota glanced back at him, reaching over to push his bangs away from his face, like he did back in the diner earlier. Ouma frowned and moved to slap his hand away once again, but this time Momota didn’t relent. He was holding something shiny, but it didn’t seem to be some kind of knife or blade. Too small. Ouma winced as Momota’s fingers weaved through his hair, and with a sudden, deciding _click,_ Momota pulled back.

Ouma blinked and looked up at him curiously. His hair wasn’t partially obscuring his vision anymore.

“It looks good on you,” Momota complimented.

_Eh?_

Ouma reached up to feel something metallic hanging against his hair and slipped against his scalp. It felt like… a hairclip. Amused, Momota took a picture with his phone and offered it to him. It felt strange to see himself look so flustered in the photograph, but his eyes immediately landed onto the small metallic object against the side of his head. It was simple and unadorned, probably made of silver judging by the color, and as his hand continued to caress it, he could feel his cheeks turning warmer.

The small added weight on his head felt strange. But he could see better with it. He could see the beauty of the view around him better with it. Nobody but Momota was staring at him anyway, so it didn’t matter if he covered his face. It was late and it was dim and people were leaving and even if they _do_ recognize him, Momota wasn’t going to let them get close. In this moment, Ouma decided that he didn’t have to hide.

“T-Thank you,” he whispered. He remembered Momota leaving for quite some time back in the hospital, while Ouma was getting examined. He must have bought this sometime around then. But… “You really shouldn’t have. This is going to get wasted anyway.”

Momota frowned, looking almost hurt. “What? Why?”

“If _he_ finds this… finds out someone gave me something like this… he’s gonna throw it away.”

Silence. Momota’s expression darkened, as expected. He leaned in and asked, “Well, he’s not going to get anywhere close to you anymore until he’s dead, anyways—so does it matter?”

_Do you really mean that?_

Ouma’s own experiences of some people noticing and just opting to not intervene said no. But the raw determination in those magenta eyes said _yes._

_Ah…_

This was what freedom felt like.

“Kai-chan,” he whispered, smiling softly. Something seemed to catch Momota off guard, and the smaller boy wondered if it had any connection to the way his vision was slightly blurring at the edges.

“Yeah?” Momota asked, evidently concerned.

The words were right there, slipping out of Ouma’s mouth without warning. Words he never would have imagined to ever leave his lips. And yet he meant it. From the bottom of his heart, he meant it.

“I love you.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend: Their relationship is pure even if they're not  
> Me: HHHHHH

**Author's Note:**

> Check out this moodboard my friend made for this AU! : https://rev-eeriee.tumblr.com/post/174264559698/inkanspider-trigger-warning-blood-and-mentions
> 
> Check out this manga scene my friend drew for this AU (A scene that is on Chapter 2, btw): https://rev-eeriee.tumblr.com/post/173254663968/cadrioxxx-warning-theres-violence-bloody-a
> 
> Check out these LOVELY fanarts! :D  
> *https://rev-eeriee.tumblr.com/post/179128860298/art-by-bluedelight-in-ao3-for-my-fic  
> *https://rev-eeriee.tumblr.com/post/178056282108/fanart-for-a-fanfic-rev-eeriee-wrote-titled
> 
> Follow me, if you want! :D  
> Tumblr (mostly inactive): https://rev-eeriee.tumblr.com/  
> Twitter (18+ account): https://twitter.com/rev_eeriee
> 
> If you guys want to chat or see what I might be up to, go check it out. :3


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